Knitters in the sun

KNlTTea-)
IN-THe-S^N

OCTAVe-THANieT

1

THE UNIVERSITY OF

NORTH CAROLINA

LIBRARY

m

THE WILMER COLLECTION
OF CIVIL WAR NOVELS
PRESENTED BY

RICHARD H. WILMER, JR.

o

o

KNITTERS IN THE SUN

BY

OCTAVE THANET

O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. —

Mark it, Cesario ; it is old and plain ;

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun.

And the free maids tl»at weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chant it.

Twelfth Night, Act II., Scene 4.

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY

1887

Copyright, 1887,
Br HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & 00-

AU rights reserved.

The Riverside Press, Cambridge :
Electrotyped and Printed by U. 0. Houghton & Co.

o

TO MY MOTHER.

Digitized by the Internet Arciiive

in 2009 with funding from

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill

http://www.archive.org/details/knittersinsunOOthan

CONTENTS.

•

PAGE

The Ogre of Ha Ha Bay 1

The Bishop's Vagabond 50

Mrs. Finlat's Elizabethan Chair .... 97

Father Quinnailon' s Convert .... 133

A Communist's Wife 173

Schopenhauer on Lake Pepin .... 201
" Ma' Bowlin' " (from Harper's TFee%) . . .237

Half a Curse . . • 269

Whitsun Harp, Regulator 301

KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY.

The Saguenay steamboat reaches Ha Ha
Bay in the early morning. It was just three
o'clock on a July morning, when Susan and I
took our first look at the bay. I had been
trying to marry Susan for ten years, and we
went up the Saguenay on our wedding journey.
I have but to shut my eyes to see Ha Ha Bay
now. Early as the hour was, the pale light
of that high latitude brought out the scene
with something the same quality of tone as an
etching : the desolate cliffs guarding the en-
trance to the Saguenay ; the hills lower, and
green with oats and barley about the placid
pool where the mysterious river widens into
the bay; the two quaint villages facing each
other across the water, with their half foreign
picturesqueness of stone walls and steep red
roofs ; a pier like a long, black arm thrust forth
from St. Alphonse; a huge sawmill over at

2 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Grand Bale; and four full-rigged ships at
anchor below the mill. The tide was out in
the flats, and the smell of salt water was in
the air.

Behind St. Alphonse some freak of nature
has heaped a mass of granite rocks, then, re-
penting, tried to hide them with a frugal ver-
dure of grass and stunted pines. The hotel is
built on the rocks. Broad piazzas made it
imposing, and whitewash, conspicuous. Not
only has St. Alphonse the hotel of the bay, it
is also the steamboat landing. Perhaps the
boat's coming but four times a week, and being
the sole means of intercourse, outside of horse-
flesh, between the village and the world, ac-
counts for the presence of all the inhabitants
on the pier. Certainly, the traffic of the region
in wood and blueberries could scarcely bring
such numbers out of their beds at three o'clock
in the morning. The wood and the blueberry
boxes — looking exactly like wee coffins — were
piled on either side. One man, with a wheel-
barrow, was hauling the wood into the boat's
hold, superintended by three officers, all talk-
ing at once. Half a dozen, having nothing
better than their arms, were carrying the
blueberries on board. At the same time,
sacks of flour and barrels and boxes of mer-
chandise kept emerging from below, the own-

o

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 3

ers of which helped the confusion by running
about after their goods, while the unwieldy-
vehicles of the region, the voitures a la planche,
were recklessly plunging, backing, and turning
through the crowd amid a mighty clamor of
French patois. One of the horses fixed my
attention. He was a splendid creature, a big
gray, with the great curved neck and powerful
flanks of a charger on a Greek frieze. The
muscles stood out like whipcord, as he reared
and pawed in the air. His driver, a slender
young habitant, took his antics very coolly,
merely saying at intervals, in a conversational
tone, " Sois sage, Bac," as though to an unruly
baby.

" I should like to drive after that horse,"
said my wife. Her voice is softer than a flute,
and she is slender and graceful, with an appeal-
ing look in her hazel eyes, and the sweetest
smile in the world ; but I have never met a
woman so fond of risking her neck. Before I
knew what was happening she had called,
" Venez ici, cocher ! " and the gray brute was
kicking at my elbow. Naturally, nothing re-
mained but to climb into the voiture a la
planche. These '' carriages on a plank " are
simply "buckboard wagons" with two seats,
the further one of which is protected by a hood
and a leather apron. Susan was charmed.

4 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" He has spirit, your horse," said she in French.
" Oway, Madame," said the driver, politely
turning in his seat. " Oway," I had already
discovered, is Canadian French for " Oui."
The driver was young. He was clad in a
decent coarse suit of gray, and wore the soft
felt hat and curious boots of undyed leather,
tied with a thong, which every habitant wears.
His features were of the delicate habitant
type; but his fair skin, blue eyes, and reddish
yellow hair hinted a mixed race. He was not
tall, and was slightly round-shouldered. The
only thing noticeable in his appearance was an
air of deep dejection, not lightened by so much
as a smile of courtesy. He spoke no English,
— almost no one speaks English in the St.
John country, — but though dejected he was
not reticent, and we had his whole history be-
fore we were well into the village. His name
was Isadore Clovis. He lived in the village
with his uncle, Xavier Tremblay. That was
his uncle's house — pointing to a cottage of
logs covered with birch bark, which stood close
to a substantial stone house. He, himself, was
not married, he never should be. His father
and' mother had been long dead. He was the
youngest of a large family ; the habitants had
large families, " Oway, M'sieu'." " And that
of my mother was of the largest," said he; " the

o

TEE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 5

good God sent her twenty-six. But twelve,
fifteen, that is common."

"And did they all live ? " I asked, while Su-
san remarked in English that she had never
heard of anything so horrible.

" Mais, non, M'sieu'," said Isadore, " all are
dead but six ; they live in Chicontimi, nme
miles from here. I live here, I with my uncle.
Regard my uncle, Madame, M'sieu' ! "

His finger indicated the roof of the stone
house. Peering over the ridgepole was a bushy
white head, set with no visible neck upon a pair
of very broad shoulders. Hair standing out in
spikes all over, a stubbly gray beard, and pro-
digious eyebrows imparted an aspect of gro-
tesque ferocity to features forbidding enough
of themselves, weatherbeaten, rugged, scored by
innumerable lines and dents. The attire of
this extraordinary bust was a plaided red flan-
nel shirt, torn at the throat, and thus display-
ing a hairy chest. Altogether, he might have
given an orang-outang the odds for ugliness.

" He owns both houses," said Isadore, '' he is
rich ; he has many farms and a fromagerie and

"He is fortunate," said Susan, who likes to
be pleasant with people, and to praise their be-
longings; "it is a good house, a comfortable
house. Does he live there ? "

Isadore threw a lustreless eye over the house.

6 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

saying slowly, "No one lives there, Madame,
no one has ever lived there ; it is because of
his vow."

"His vow?"

" Oway, Madame. He made a vow before
M. Pingat, M. le notaire, M. Rideau, M. Ver-
net, those, that he would never go into his
new house until be should marry a maiden of
twenty. It was twenty-five years ago, but he
has never gone into the house since."

" How old is he ? "

" He is eighty years old, Madame ; he is a
very strong man. Every day he climbs the
roof, so."

"Dear me," cried Susan, "this is most inter-
esting! he has never married, then?"

"No, Madame; once be was affianced to a
maiden of twenty, she had but one eye ; but
she fell in the river and was drowned."

"But in his youth?"

" Once he was afl&anced, Madame," said Isa-
dore ; "he was then fifty-five, and not long come
from Quebec. Madame does not know the
widow Guion ; she is still handsome; but then,
when she was twent}^, there was no one in the
parish to compare with her. My uncle would
marry her, and the affair was arranged, and my
uncle had built the house ; it was nearly fin-
ished, when, behold, she will not marry my un-
cle, she will marry Pierre Guion. Then all the

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 7

world made jests about my uncle, who, as one
can see, is not handsome. And it was at M.
Francois Pouliot's house that they were laugh-
ing, and saying that my uncle would frighten
any woman away, he was so ugly, and my uncle
overheard it, passing by, and came in, and
swore an oath before them all, that he would
never go into his new house until he should
marry a maiden of twenty. ' I can get the best
of them to marry me, for as ugly as I am,' said
he. But it was twenty-five years first."

" Has he succeeded, then ? " Isadore, lean-
ing forward, gathered up the reins.

*' Oway, Madame," he said, in a low tone,
*' he has succeeded. Next month he will marry
a maiden of twenty, and move into his new
house." By force of habit Isadore called the
twenty-five year old house "the new house; "
doubtless it had been "the old house " and "the
new house " to him from childhood. " He left
the house just as it was," said Isadore, " the
wood and shavings are all scattered about the
floors, where the carpenters left them. He had
the carpenters board up the windows, that was
all. Bac, en avant ! "

We had turned and were ascending a hill.
Half-way up Isadore stopped to point again.
" See, Madame, the cottage of the widow
GuioD." It was a mere morsel of a house, the

8 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

unpainted boards of wbicli were made a better
protection against the weather by a covering
of birch bark. In the little yard the peas were
in flower, and a few hollyhocks reared their
heads above the beet leaves and lettuce. A
barefooted man was raking coals out of the
open-air oven which stood to one side of a pile
of brush. " C'est le beau-frere de Madame,"
said Isadore, " c'est un fou, mais bon naturel,
pas me chant. From here, Madame can see the
hotel plainly."

We looked, not at the hotel, but at the road.
Could that infatuated Canadian mean to drive
up a sheer rock, slippery with mud, wider but
hardly better than a goat path ?

"Attendez," said I, "do you mean to take
us up that way, that? "

"Oway, M'sieu','' replied Isadore, tranquilly,
" without doubt. Bac is accustomed to it. Be-
hold ! Bac, en avant ! " With the word, he
leaped lightly over the shafts, and Bac and he
went up the hill on a run. It is the pace of
the country ; up hill and down, they make their
horses gallop at the top of tbeir speed. I don't
know why; I suppose they like it. At any
rate, Susan did ; she was enchanted.

"Wasn't it lovely, Maurice?" she cried, as
Isadore pulled Bac up before the hotel piazzas ;
" do give the man something handsome."

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 9

I gave him fifty cents, which he said was
more than he deserved ; and we both watched
him rattle down the hill at a rate which threat-
ened to break every bone in his body. Then,
having seen him emerge unshattered, we entered
the hotel. There are no such inns in the
States. Nothing could be more primitive than
the house and its furnishing. The walls were
unplastered, the woodwork unpainted; the
women of the village had spun, woven, and
dyed the strips of gay carpet on the pine floors.
We had tallow candles in our bedrooms, a
candle to a room. If we wanted a maid we
went out into the hall and called her. A bath
was a perilous luxury, the one bath tub of the
house being too large for the doors, so that
it must be emptied before it could be tilted on
one side and trundled out of the room, which
operation usually ended in flooding both the
bather's chamber and the room below, not
counting a few stray rivulets likely to meander
into the hall. Yet, I have been less comfort-
able in houses with grand names. Everything
was scrupulously clean ; Madame gave us a
capital dinner and Monsieur kept most excellent
wines ; nor is it everywhere that one can eat
salmon of his own catching. Moreover, it is
pleasant to live among a people so simple,
kindlv, and cheerful as the French Canadians.

10 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

All the ri^ror of a barsh climate and a hard life
cannot quench their amiable vivacity or that
engaging politeness which flings a sort of
Southern grace over their bare Northern homes.
We grew fond of the viUagers. To them the
hotel was the centre of festivity ; were there
not a bowling alley, and a billiard room, and in
the parlor a 'piano ? Nightly the village mag-
nates would assemble in the alley and bowl
with tremendous energy and both hands. We
came to know them all, the doctor, the notary,
the rich fur merchant, the various shopkeepers
and farmers.

Of them all none interested us more than the
widow Guion and her daughter. The widow
was a tall woman, whose figure had been
moulded on such fine lines that a life of coarse
toil had not been able to spoil them. Trouble
had bleached her thick hair and wrinkled her
face, and the weather had browned her skin,
but she was as straight as an arrow and still
had splendid eyes and a profile worth drawing.
We often saw her in her garden working like a
man. Indoors, she would wash her hands, tie a
clean apron about her waist, and sing over her
spinning. The singing was for the fool. She
was very kind to him and devoted to her
dauo'hter. She was also neat, honest, and
industrious; but she was not popular in the

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 11

village; they said that she had an imperious
temper and was unsocial. Melanie, the daugh-
ter, was one of the maids at the hotel, a
tall, handsome, black-haired, fair-skinned girl,
who revived the traditions of her mother's
beauty. One day something occurred to make
us notice Melanie. We were sitting on the
rocks overhanging the village. It was that
most peaceful hour of the day, the hour before
sunset. The west was in a glow that turned
the tin spire of the little church into silver ; the
mountains cast purple shadows over the bay ;
and the water was a steel mirror with rippling
splashes of shade. We could hear the lowing
of the cows returning homeward, and the faint
tinkle of bells, and the voices of mothers call-
ing their children. " How peaceful it is," said
Susan softly, "and they seem so pastoral and
childlike, like people in poems. One can hardly
imagine any one's being very unhappy here."

Perhaps she was thinking of our own past;
certainly we had been miserable enough, before
we drifted into this calm harbor. Just then a
man and woman, coming along the path be-
neath, halted, out of sight, but not out of hear-
ing. The man was speaking : " No, I cannot
bear it. See, thou art all I have, thou ; I have
loved thee all my life. Ah, mon dieu, how
couldst thou promise ! " Now I grant that we

12 KNITTERS IN TEE SUN

ought to have risen at once, and gone away;
but I am not relating what we ought to have
done, but what we did do, which was to sit still
and listen with all our ears. The woman an-
swered. The other's voice was rough and thick
from passion : but hers was very gentle and quiet.

" I will tell thee, Isadore," she said (Susan
pinched my arm) ; " I came here to tell.
Thou knowest maman has a great opinion of
M. Tremblay, who has been her only friend,
though he has so little reason."

" It was but that he might marry ^/lee," cried
Isadore, " curse his craft}^ head ! "

"May be," answered the woman wearily,
"though I think not; but he has been ever
kind to us, since before I was born. And
maman was glad, very glad, when he would
marry me."

" And was it tJiat " —

" Hush ! no, my friend. It was hard to re-
fuse her who has lived so wearying a life and
had so great disappointments, but I thought of
thee. Then — then — she told me. Isadore,
maman — maman is going blind!" The voice
which was so steady broke, but in a second it
went on quietly as before. " It is that, my
friend, that made me promise. M. le docteur
says if she will go to Montreal to the great
doctor there, he will make her eyes well again.

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 13

But it will cost a great, great sum of money,
two hundred dollars. And M. Tremblay has
promised to give it her, and more, besides,
when I marry him. And if she does not go,
she must become quite blind. Already she
cannot spin the yarn even, and when she feels
the lumps afterwards, she weeps." There was
a somid like a groan. "Do not weep, my
friend," she continued, " it cannot be for long.
He is so very old."

This practical view of the matter hardly
seemed to console the lover, who burst out:
*' Thou dost not understand it, thou ! Ah, no,"
— he swore a grpat oath, with a sob in his
throat, — "I will not endure it. Listen, I have
five dollars. I will sell Bac. We will go to
Quebec and be married. Ah, think, m'amie,
thou and I."

There was a break filled by a very pretty
sound, then the soft voice again. "Ah, no,
Isadore, thou must not kiss me. It cannot be.
I have sworn before the image of the blessed
Virgin to marry him. And, beside — oh, Isa-
dore, how could I leave her behind, to grow
blind — without me ! " Isadore did not answer.
The vesper bell rang from the church tower.
" My friend," said the girl, " I must go. I can
never see thee alone again. Wilt thou not for-
give me, first?"

14 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

"I might kill him," said the man.

"And be hanged for it?" answered his
practical sweetheart, "how would that help? "

" He would be dead," said the desperate
Isadore, " he could not marry thee. Mon dieu,
it would help much ! "

" But thy soul, it would burn forever ! "

"It would not burn," said Isadore, practical
in his turn, " I would repent and confess to the
priest and he would absolve me."

" But he could not bring thee back to life.
Oh, Isadore, promise me thou wilt put away
such thoughts ! Thou art cruel, thou ! "

" Ah, dost thou feel what is tearing my
h6art?" cried poor Isadore.

"Look at me," said the woman, " dost thou
remember my face a month ago ? I cannot
speak when I suffer, like thee ; I can only bear
it." The man was kissing her again, and cry-
ing quite openly. " Isadore," said she, " I must
go. Bid me farewell. No, do not hold me.
See, thou hast often complained that I never
will kiss thee. This once."

I think they were both crying now. We
were ashamed to listen longer and got up, but
in a few moments a woman's shape flitted
round the curve and passed us. She was tall
and had black hair ; we both recognized M^-
lanie. " Oh, poor things ! " cried my dear wife,

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 15

" and we are so happy ; can't we help them,
Maurice ? " I said that we might try. Any-
how, it would n't cost more than a picture.
" So Melanie is the old ogre's victim, is she ? "
said I ; " what possesses her mother ? "

In truth, Tremblay, in the village eyes, was
worse than an ogre. All the world knew him
to be a miser to his nail points, a cruel, surly
old reprobate. He was a heretic and a scoffer
at the saints. He had amassed (doubtless by
baleful means) what was great wealth in that
simple community. Most of the villagers were
in his debt ; nor was this the worst, he had
possessed himself of all the secrets of the parish.
How? The doctor talked about gossip; but
there was a sinister theory more in favor.
Under the confessional floor, in the church,
was a space between the timbers large enough
for a dog to lie, and Xavier, strong and supple,
in spite of his eighty years, could curl his short
body into a dog's compass ; the abominable
wickedness would only give a zest to the act,
for the old infidel.

" But what secrets can you have ? " I said to
the doctor, " they can't be very bad."

" There is a black spot in the human heart,
everywhere, Monsieur," answered the doctor.
Wherever the black spot, Xavier was sure to
put his wicked old finger on it and gibe at the

16 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

victim's wincing. Then he would creep away,
chuckling, to the ground, or, may be, to his pet
devil, for St. Alphonse firmly believed in such
a familiar.

My own acquaintance with the ogre was
limited to one interview. I found him unload-
ing blueberries, on the wharf, his cart and a
sorry skeleton of a horse beside him. A nearer
view did not give one a better opinion of his
looks. He was of low stature, with enormously
long arms, and disproportionately broad shoul-
ders. I asked him a question; in French, of
course.

"Me spik Englis," croaked the old sinner.

He insisted on speaking a kind of mongrel
English in answer to my French, and we did
not make much advance. By and by another
man appeared and I tried to talk to him. In-
stantly Xavier's lean fingers were tapping my
shoulder.

" He no spik Englis tall," said the exasper-
ating monster.

" Tant mieux," said I, "at least I shall un-
derstand him ! "

"Mais peut-Stre, M'sieu'," be retorted grin-
ning, " he no vill undertands you ! "

I surrendered, bought a box of berries (at an
awful price), and left him leering like a gar-
goyle. Recalling that leer, I pitied Melanie.

o

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 17

What a husband for a girl of twenty ! Susan
and I talked the affair over, discussing half a
dozen plans of rescue. The most obvious
was to go to the widow. We went. Susan
broached the subject, after a diplomatic pur-
chase of hollyhocks. She spoke of Melanie, of
her beauty, her pleasant ways, of our interest
in her. We had heard that she was to be mar-
ried ; might we offer our sincere wishes for her
happiness ?

"Oway, Madame," the widow replied, with
a certain ominous contraction of the muscles of
the mouth, " she will be happy ; M. Tremblay
has a good heart."

"But," said Susan, "pardon, Madame — it
is our great interest in Melanie — is not M.
Tremblay very old ? "

We were in the garden, all four of us, for
the idiot brother-in-law was there also, piling
brush ; Madame had been hoeing ; she struck
her hoe smartly on the ground and rested her
elbows on the handle, her chin on her hands,
and so eyed us grimly.

" Without doubt, Madame," said she ; "quay
done ? He will die the sooner. In ten, in five
years she will be a widow, rich, free."

" Consider those same five years, Madame,"
I cried, " the trouble, the misery, perhaps."

Her lip cui'led. " M'sieu' has heard the talk

18 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

of the village. They are imbeciles, they. M.
Tremblay is a miser. Bah, look around you,
M'sieu'. This house, that wood, for a nothing,
a few vegetables — from a miser! Look at
him," pointing to the idiot, "those clothes are
from M. Tremblay, from the miser! In" the
house is a fiddle, one of the most beautiful.
It is for him. M. Tremblay gave it him. For
why ? can he play ? Mon dieu, no ; but it
pleases him to make a noise, and M. Tremblay
bought it. When Mdlanie was a little child he
always bought her things, snowshoes, a tobog-
gan, a doll from Quebec. No child in St. Al-
phonse has a doll like that. A miser! bah,
lies of the devil ! "

" But he is a wicked man, cruel, harsh," I
persisted.

" Never to us, M'sieu', never, never!"

" He is a heretic."

" Et M'sieu' ? " said the widow.

" I am not to marry a Catholic. But he is
worse, he scoffs at the saints and does not be-
lieve in the good God himself."

" The good God knows better," said Madame
Guion placidl3^

I tried another tack. " But Melanie may
love some one else."

" M'sieu' means Isadore Clovis," said the
widow, drawing her tall figure to its full height.

o

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 19

and thougli I am a big fellow, her eyes were
nearly level with mine. " Eh bien, I, too, have
loved a young man, M'sieu'. It was twenty-
five years ago, and M. Tremblay would marry
me, but I was a fool, I : my heart was set on
a young man of this parish, tall, strong, hand-
some. I quarreled with all my relations, I
married him, M'sieu'. Within a month of our
wedding day he broke my arm, twisting it to
hurt me. He was the devil. Twice, but for
his brother, he would have killed me. Jules is
strong, though he has no wits ; he pulled him
off. See, M'sieu'," flinging the hoe aside to
push the hair off her temples, "this he did
with his stick; and this," baring her arm,
" with his knife. But I was a fool, I forgave
him and worked for him. He would do noth-
ing but play cards and drive horses and drink,
drink, drink. His grandfather was an English-
man and drank himself to death. The English
are like that. And I — I forgave him and
made myself old and wrinkled and black work-
ing for money for him. Then he would laugh
at my ugly face and praise the village girls'
looks. He had a soul of mud ! But I forgave
that, too. Then my children were born, and
he beat them. Then I forgave no more, my
heart was like coals of fire. Attendez, M'sieu',
I have the mother's heart, I love my children.

20 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

yet I was glad, I, when they died and were
safe from him ! Figure, then, what kind of
father he was ! Only Melanie lived. The oth-
ers would cry, cry ; but Melanie did not cry,
and she would never speak to him, her father.
There was reason: God knows what women
have to suffer, and He takes vengeance. He,
that coward, was afraid of Melanie, a little
baby, because she would not speak to him. He
tried, many times, to make her, but no, she
would never speak, and she was three years old
when he died. A horse kicked him and killed
him, a horse that he was beating ! "

The fool had dropped his sticks and was
staring at her piteously, alarmed at her ges-
tures and her angry voice. He ran up to her
and stroked her hand, uttering a mournful, in-
articulate sound.

"Ce n'est rien, Jules," said the widow smil-
ing on him, " sois tranquil." Jules smiled, too,
and nodded his head, then slunk back to his
task. " Do you understand, M'sieu', now,"
said the widow, " why I will not have Melanie
marry a young man ? "

''But Isadore is so good," said Susan, coming
to my aid, "he would not be cruel to Melanie."

Madame Guion laughed harshly. " He ? "
she shouted, " he ? ma foy ! I think no. My
Melanie could lift him with the one arm. Al-

TUE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 21

ways, she has taken care of him. Look you:
when they are children, she puts on his snow-
shoes ; and when he cries for the cold, she puts
on him her mittens ; and she will fight the boys
that tease him because he is Tremblay's nephew.
Always, she takes care of him."

" But, Madame," said Susan in her gentle
voice, " if they have loved each other from
childhood, how hard for them to be separated

now."

" It would be harder," said the widow in
quite another tone, " to marry him and repent
all the years after. Love, it is pleasant, but
marriage, that is another pair of sleeves. Tiens,
Madame, regard the women of this village.
Without doubt Madame has observed them.
They work, work, work ; they scrub, they cook,
they weave, they spin, they knit, they make
the clothes ; one has not time to say one's
prayers ; and every year a new mouth to fill, —
mon dieu, one mouth ? two at a blow, perhaps !
That makes one ugly and old. If Melanie mar-
ries Isadore Clovis she will be like these oth-
ers, so poor, so tired, so ugly ; and there will be
the children and her poor old blind mother can-
not help her. Ah, mon dieu, I will not have
such a fate come to my beautiful one ! "

Then I spoke, struggling after a short cut
through the situation. I offered to pay for her

22 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

journey to Montreal and to do something for
Isadore.

The widow's face stiffened ; plainly she sus-
pected the Greeks' gifts. "And why should
M'sieu' incommode himself for my eyes ?" said
she.

I thought I had better let Susan do the rest
of the talking. Her tact is equal to any de-
mand. " It is for Melanie, too, you under-
stand," said she, " I am fond of Melanie. And
see, Madame, we are two lovers, my husband
and I " (with an adorable blush), " and we are
very happy ; we should like to make two other
lovers happy. Is not that what the good God
intends we should do with happiness, share
it?"

The widow Guion smiled a faint and wintry
smile, saying : " Truly, M'sieu' has cause to be
happy. But look you," she continued rapidly,
" M'sieu' does not understand. • It is not for
myself. To see Mdlanie rich, content, I would
be blind, deaf, dumb ! " At this climax of
calamities she spread her hands out to the sky,
and the fool began to moan. " Melanie will be
happier with M. Tremblay, — not now, in the
end. And Isadore, too, he will be happier ; his
uncle will then give him a farm, — he has told
me ; he will marr^^, he will content himself, he
is a slight creature. It is not for him to marry

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY.

M^lanie. For see, Madame, she has always had
better than the other children. Often, I have
worked all night that she might wear a pretty
robe to the church. She has been to the con-
vent at Chicontimi ; she has accomplishments :
she can embroider, she can make flowers with
wool, she can play on the piano. One can see
she is superior to the other girls of the village.
M. Trembla}^ will do everything for her ; he
will take her to Quebec. Ah, Madame, it is
because I love my little one that I would give
her to M. Tremblav."

Evidently we could hope nothing from Me-
lanie's mother. Simultaneously Susan and I
gave it up, and Susan covered our retreat with
an order for beets, to be delivered at the hotel.

But I thought that I understood the situation
better. I believed Madame Guion told us the
truth : she was only seeking her daughter's
happiness. She had an intense but narrow
nature, and her life of toil, hard and busy
tbough it was, being also lonely and quiet,
rather helped than hindered brooding over her
sorrows. Her mind was of the true peasant
type, the ideas came slowly and were tenacious
of grip. Love had been ruin to her. It meant
heartbreak, bodily anguish, the torture of im-
potent anger, and the bitterest humiliation.
Therefore, her fixed determination was to save

24 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Melanie from its delusions. And because her
own bloom had withered under sordid hardships,
she yearned with passionate longing to ward
them off her child. These two desires had
come to fill her whole mind. Old Xavier
offered to gratify both. Besides, he was the
giver of whatever small comforts had brightened
her poverty ; she was grateful, and it is quite
possible that she wanted to make amends for
the past. As for those aspects of the marriage
which revolted us, privations and drudgery
blunt sentiment in women even more effectually
than in men. Madame Guion felt no horror
in such a union simply because she could not
see any. These conclusions solved the problem
of the widow's motives, but they did not help,
in the least, to change them, or to make her
more friendly towards Isadore. We tried the
young people, next. I talked with Isadore, and
Susan with Melanie. It was all plain sailing
with the man. He poured out his woes to me,
on the way to Lake Ravel, with true Gallic
effusion. His uncle had been kind to him, after
a gruff and silent fashion, when a lad, but now,
grown to manhood, he found himself frankly
despised.

" He has said of me, ' C'est un vrai bleche,' "
cried Isadore, grinding his teeth. " Bac, arretes
done ! " The horse, plunging at the sight of

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 25

a fallen tree, was calmed instantly ; I could not
help admiring the lad's mastery of the animal.

" He would not say that, if he had seen you
drive Bac when he was frightened," I said.

" It is nothing," said Isadore ; " I am good to
Bac and he knows it, that is all. He taught
me to be kind to animals. He buys old horses
that are beaten. M'sieu' has seen the last,
Charlay, a sight to make fear. He will not be
so long, he will be fat, lazy, like the others.
He says : ' Dame, I can get work out of them,
e'estbon marche ! ' But it is not for that he
loves all animals. He loves the fool, also ; but
all good people he hates, and he curses the
saints, he is so wicked," said Isadore, piously
crossing himself.

Certainly his uncle knew of his attachment.
*' He is glad that I suffer," said Isadore.
" M'sieu', I speak to you with the heart open ;
sometimes I think that I will kill myself, but
Melanie then will weep, and I must burn, my-
self, forever, also. No, I will go away, she
shall never see me again. I will go to Chi-
contimi ! "

Chicontimi being barely nine miles away
rather blunted the point of this tragic threat ;
but the poor fellow's grief and rage were real
enough. There was no question about his
willingness to be helped. He burst into tears

26 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

and insisted upon embracing me over the front
seat. He would do anything, he would go any-
where, he was my slave for life. Then he cried
again.

Melanie, as the French say, was more diffi-
cult. At first she could hardly believe in
Susan's offers. Finally convinced, the poor
girl grew quite white with emotion ; all she did,
however, was to lift a fold of Susan's gown,
press it tightly between her two hands to her
heart, and then let it drop ; — an odd gesture,
which, nevertheless, Susan found infinitely ex-
pressive.

But she could not be swerved from her pur-
pose. She had sworn before the Virgin ; to
retreat now would break her mother's heart ;
moreover, the marriage would be the best thing
for Isadore, since M. Tremblay, who never
broke his word, had promised to give his nephew
a farm on his wedding day. That Isadore
might reject the gift did not occur to Melanie ;
the habitants have no morbid scruples of deli-
cacy — well, I do not know that it would have
occurred to Isadore, either.

Susan would have tried to show her the sure
unhappiness in such a marriage, but her first
words were stopped by the girl's quivering
mouth and the miserable appeal of her eyes.

" Oh, do not tell it me, Madame," she cried,

o

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 27

" I tell myself until I cannot sleep any more at
night. I work, work, all day, to be tired ; but
at night it is only that my bones ache, the
thoughts will not stop. I cannot eat or sleep,
and always there is the same hard pain here:'
She touched, not her heart, but her throat.
" Some day, it will choke me, I think," said she.
Yet she spoke of Tremblay without bitterness,
saying: " He was very good to me when I was
young. For why should he be good at all ?
All the world has been unkind to him. When
he was a little child, his own mother did not
love him because he was ugly. He had a great
misfortune in his youth, also ; what, I do not
know, but he will often say to maman, 'Beware
of doing services to people, Madame. When I
was young I was a fool. I did kindnesses, I
would be loved. Men are like wolves, they bite
the hand that feeds them. Be feared, Madame,
that is best.' He makes himself feared. What
he says, he does. He has vowed to marry a
maiden of twenty, and he will keep his vow !
Look you, the mother gave him the key of the
fields,! he will marry the daughter ; he makes
two blows with a stone."

Meanwhile the matter was the absorbing
topic at the Bay, our unlucky efforts to assist

'^ Donner le clef des champs, a satirical expression for a dis-
missal.

28 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

the lovers being as much common property as
Isadore's despair or Melanie's filial submission.
This was just a trifle embarrassing, since we
could hardly buy a candle that a multitude of
volunteer counselors did not troop about us ;
or row on the Bay without the boatman's in-
quiring anxiously what we meant to do next.
Not a mother's son had a suggestion to offer ;
but they all showed a cheerful confidence in our
ingenuity, and were amazingly sympathetic.

While this went on, I was seeing Xavier
daily. Sometimes he would be walking, at-
tended by a starving retinue of curs, sometimes
driving Charlay ; always he would grin at me
in his gargoyle fashion ; but our acquaintance
got no further until the day I ran against him
on the pier, talking English to Susan. Susan
was talking English also.

"Why not?" was her comment, "he likes
it. He is going to show us over his cr^merie,
this afternoon. You know I have an interest
in a cremerie, myself — and by good luck I 've
been through it."

We spent three mortal hours in old Xavier's
creamery, Susan admiring things right and left.
Somewhere about Tremblay's porcupine nature
must have been a soft spot of vanity, and my
clever wife found it, for actually he looked al-
most human while he talked to her, and the

o

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 29

grin that seemed carved on his face was soft-
ened into an uncouth smile.

"Susan," said I, "you are an unprincipled
woman, flattering that clown ! "

" Maurice," she answered gravely, " he inter-
ests me greatly."

The following day, being Sunday, we went
to church. We liked the little church of St.
Alphonse, with its walls covered with mortar
decorated by laths in wavy lines, to give a
foothold to future plaster ; its pillars hewn out
of pine logs ; its echoing floors; its altogether
dreadful stations and images, and its poor little
tawdry altars. Whenever mass was celebrated
a dingy and crumpled flock of surplices crowded
the chancel. It was worth a long journey to
see the easy attitudes of the choristers, as they
lounged in their stalls or shambled through the
ritual. They all had colds, and expectorated
with artless freedom. Choristers and organist
generally started together on the chants; but
soon the voices would lose the key and wander
helplessly off, amid a howling mob of discords,
while the organist was sternly plodding her
way through her notes, leaving them to their
fate. Withal there was no irreverence ; on the
contrary, a devout attention. I used to watch
the people telling their beads or kneeling at
their prayers, and question whether their life

30 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

seemed to tliem the innocent and stupid affair
that it seemed to me. Thus gazing, this Sun-
day, I was aware that the aisle was ilhiminated
by a blaze of red satin, followed by a rusty
black gown, — Melanie and her mother. Me-
lanie's gay frock was trimmed with cheap
white lace. Susan called it a "nightmare"
later, and it certainly did suggest the splendors
of the chorus in a comic opera ; but, all the
same, it was amazingly becoming, and the girl's
pallor and troubled eyes only enhanced her
beauty. No wonder the young men stared at
her and the women whispered.

The cure preached a good sermon enough ;
but I could have wished a less appropriate sub-
ject than the sin of broken vows. Melanie sat
like a statue, hardly seeming to hear, her beads
dangling from her limp fingers. The only vis-
ible portion of the widow's shape was her back,
but I fancied a grim complacency in the way
she sat bolt upright and held her chin in the
air. After mass we had the excitement of a
shower. There was the customary huddling
under the church porch, while the fortunate
owners of " buckboards " drove up, in turn, and
stored their womankind on the sheltered back
seats. I had a glimpse of Bac's tossing mane
among the horses, and saw Isadore standing up
in the '' buckboard," looking for Melanie. I

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 31

heard him offer his vehicle to Madame Guion.
Simultaneously, old Xavier climbed up the
church steps, in his ordinary garb of homespun,
with plenty of mud on his boots. His long
arm extended itself under two or three interven-
ing shoulders, and jerked the Avidow's shawl.
What he said was inaudible, but in response,
she gathered up her skirts above her white
stockings, took her daughter by the hand, and
strode out to the voiture ^ la planche. Poor
Isadore was already at Bac's head smiling. He
assisted the women in and buttoned the apron
over their knees. Just as he was about to fol-
low them his uncle's long arm unceremoniously
thrust him aside and the old man climbed into
his seat. The young fellow stood like one stu-
pefied. His fair skin turned a deep red.

-' En avant ! " bawled Xavier. The voice
roused Isadore. Bac flung his heels into the
air and was off, Isadore after him, screaming
" Take care ! Bac will go for none but me !
Stop, or he will kill you." The old man's an-
swer was the whistle of a whip. I don't think
that Xavier meant to touch the horse, it was a
mere bit of a bravado, but by chance the lash
did fillip Bac's flank. Up he went, like a shot,
pawing the air ; then round in a furious half cir-
cle. Xavier pulled, but he might as well have
tried to hold a whirlwind. I had started at the
same instant, and was abreast of Isadore.

32 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" C'est raon affaire," he cried, jumping at
the bits. I caught the animal on the other side.
For a moment I expected that he would tram-
ple the life out of both of us ; he had the
strength of ten horses. But Isadore talked
away as composedly as if in the stable yard :
" Arretes, done, Bac ; sois sage ! s-s-sh ! Why
dost thou make such a time, little fool ? " And
actually, that raving devil of a brute stopped,
trembling, and rubbed his nose against the
habitant's breast.

" M'sieu', mon oncle," said Isadore calmly,
*' have the goodness to debark.^ Bac is not
safe for any one but me to drive."

The old man looked at his nepliew and
grinned. Quite composedly he got down, and
stood with his hands on his hips while Isadore
sprang lightly into the voiture a la planche.
Neither of the women spoke : the widow looked
scared, Melanie's eyes were shining. Isadore
gravely touched his hat to me and drove away,
old Xavier wrinkling his cheeks over his eyes
in a deeper grin. " Bah," he muttered, " he
can drive the little one," and stumped off with-
out a word of acknowledgment to me.

Susan, when I told her the story, held that it

1 The habitants on the Sagueuay and St. Lawrence always
use deharquer for descendre, probably because they have so
much to do with boats.

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 33

was very encouraging. She thought that she
understood the mot cVenigme about Tremblay.

" You see, Maurice," said she, " he is awfully
vain, that is all. Did n't you ever notice that
deformed people always are vain, poor things ?
Tremblay, now, has a consuming desire to be
noticed. I think that at first he tried to win
people's affection, and I imagine he met with
some cruel disappointments. He had a dismal
childhood, and you know, yourself, about the
widow Guion. I believe he cared more for her
than he will admit. See how kind he has been
to her. He may pretend all sorts of mean
motives for his actions, but there the kind ac-
tions are. You see, Maurice, now he tries to
make people fear him, it is the same vanity,
only twisted a little. He takes as much pains
to appear wicked and cruel as other people do
to appear good. Why, he started that story
about the confessional, himself. Depend upon
it, it is nothing but his vanity makes him so
obstinately bent on marrying a girl of twenty."
She had a pretty theory about his having been
disappointed in Isadore. " He took the child
to bring up," said she, " hoping, I feel sure,
though he may not have owned the hope to
himself, that the boy would be on his side,
would share his hatred of mankind, and grow
up in his own pattern. If Isadore had been a

34 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

bold, fierce sort of a character, I believe the old
man would have grown to love him ; but from
the first the boy was taken up by the village
people, and he has all their ways of thinking.
Then, besides, he is such a mild, gentle, ineffi-
cient seeming fellow that Tremblay can't en-
dure it. But I fancy he has misjudged Isadore,
and he is beginning to see it. He would be
glad."

I did n't pretend to decide whether my wife
was right, nor do I now; but this is what
happened. One day I came out on the piazza
to find the two, Xavier and Susan, talking ear-
nestly. He gave me a nod, saying, " Madame
does not approve of me, M'sieu' ; she thinks I
marry quite too young a wife."

"I am of Madame's opinion," said I.

Old Xavier looked at Susan's pretty, flushed
cheeks not unkindly. " I care not for the
people here," he said, " they are imbeciles,
they ; but her I find different. I wish to make
myself understood. Look you, I want no wife ;
but they have made a mock of me in this
parish. None shall make a mock of Xavier
Tremblay. I say, ' Oway, I am old, I am ugly,
all the same, bon gre, mal gre, I can marry a
girl of twenty. I swear I will not go into my
new house before.' Eh bien, the time goes on.
I see a maiden of twenty, not beautiful, stupid.

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 35

but good, amiable. She has but one eye. Her
people are unkind to her, often I see her weep.
I have compassion ; I am ugly, myself, Madame,
and in my youth I knew what it was to weep.
I think she will have a pleasanter life with old
Tremblay. I speak kindly to her. We ar-
range it; she is not difficult. But she fell
into the river and was drowned. Then goes a
long time. Melanie Guion has grown up. She
pleases me, I think ; the mother gave me the
key of the fields. Good, I will marry the
daughter. I will show these beasts that Xa-
vier Tremblay can do what he pleases. But
Madame can tell Melanie that I will not be
troublesome to her, and when I am dead she
may marry Isadore ; he can drive."

" You have shown that you can do as you
please, Monsieur," said Susan: "to marry Me-
lanie will not show it any more ; all the world
knows that she has promised."

" But my vow, Madame, and my new house,
I tire of living in my old house, c'est bien
ennuyant."

There was our sticking, his preposterous old
new house. He could not endure its standing
reminder of his unfulfilled vow ; the very sight
of the walls which he might not enter chafed
his vanity ; to live in it had grown to be a
corroding ambition, and the day whereon he

36 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

should step across those mi completed, yet half
ruined thresholds appeared to his imagination
as the climax of his life. We asked too much,
asking him to give up such visions.

All this while, Isadore was haunting the
hotel, waiting with forlorn patience for a word
or look from me. I repeated his uncle's words
to him, whereupon he frowned darkly, and in-
formed me that he longed to kill the old man ;
a confidence which disturbed me little, since I
had my own opinion of Isadore's resolution.

By this time I was decidedly uncomfortable,
myself. The way Isadore morally flopped over
on me, as it were, had a subtle tinge of irrita-
tion in its helplessness. Why could not the
fellow lift a hand for himself? and the villagers
w^ere worse. They maintained a maddening
confidence in my astuteness. When the no-
tary assured me that " the old fox " (meaning
Tremblay) had met his match (meaning me),
and Madame Pingat, the postmistress, gave me
expressions of faith with my letters, and the
blacksmith, winking very pleasantly, told me
that he could guess what I was after, talking
with old Xavier, I felt like swearing; and
when Madame Vernet, who kept a " general
shop," sold me a tea-kettle for a coffee-pot (one
boiled quite as well as the other, she said, and
the habitants used them indiscriminately) and

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 37

asked me if I did n't think it time to do some-
thing decisive, I went out and kicked an un-
offending dog. Pretty soon, I felt that we
should have to fly the country. Like Susan, I
now rested my slender hope on getting out of
the mess with credit upon old Xavier, and I
was glad when an opportunity presented for
another appeal. Isadore was to drive me to
Lake Kavel for a day of trout fishing ; but the
evening previous he appeared with his arm in
a sling. He had sprained his right wrist and
offered his uncle's services in his stead, saying
that the latter had a better horse than Chaiiay.
So old Xavier took me to the lake. There I
praised Isadore in French and English.

"You love 'im," said the old ogre, blinking
at me with his keen eyes, " mais moi, me tink
'im vaurien ; can mek wiz ze 'orse, notings of
morre, non. Bah, for wy he laisse me tek 'is
amie avays ? " From which I gathered that he
did not regard Isadore as a young man of
spirit. In fact, I did n't think much of my
habitant's spirit myself, but I had a suspicion
that he wanted to be contradicted, that long
silent instincts of blood were roused and speak-
ing; perhaps, too, some faint emotions of com-
passion for the girl who had been fond of him
as a child.

" Chut," he muttered, relapsing into his own

38 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

tongue, " I will not be troublesome to Melanie.
It is a good little girl. I should have been her
father, I; I have thought that always."

"Make her your niece, then," said I, "that's
next best."

" And never go into my new house ? Mais
non, ca ne va pas ! "

There we stuck fast again. Briefly, I made
another failure, and by the time evening came
and we were in sight of the village I was de-
cidedly out of temper. The first thing I no-
ticed put my chagrin to flight. Little crowds
of people going homewards gazed at us curi-
ously, until, suddenly, Xavier shook his whip
handle at a broken, lazy cloud of smoke and
urged his horse into a gallop. Reason enough !
the smoke was rising from the ruins of his
" new house." A sorry sight they made ;
heaps of blackened and crumbling stone which
had been walls, charred skeletons of joists, and
distorted shapes of tin or iron showed the fierce
power of the fire. Jets of flame were still
playing with the remnants of window frames,
and puffs of black smoke rose only to sink
again and drift forlornly above the wreck.
Men with buckets and blankets, women hold-
ing babies in their arms, and a crowd of chil-
dren stood around talking shrilly. A kind of
hush fell on the chatter as we drove up.

o

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 39

Everybody stared at old Xavier. His iron
composure gave no clew to his feelings. "My
stable," said old Xavier, " what of the horses?"
A medley of voices explained that Isadore had
saved the horses. If we were to believe the
women, he had been a prodigy of valor. Xa-
vier listened with his smirk that was uglier
than a frown. " Where then is he, this brave
fellow?" said he. Half a dozen boys started
after Isadore.

I did not wait for his arrival. Seeing Susan
standing a little to one side, I joined her. She
told me about the fire. It seems that a party
of tourists, coming and going by the morning's
boat, had been shown through the village by
Isadore and little Antoine Vernet. The gen-
tlemen, who had somehow heard of old Xavier,
expressed a curiosity to go into his house.
They pulled the boards off a window and
climbed in and roamed over the house. They
were smoking, and there was a quantity of dry
wood and shavings about. Little Antoine said
that Isadore asked them to put out their cigars
lest a spark should set these afire ; but they
did not appear to understand him. After they
were gone, almost three hours, the fire broke
out. The whole house seemed to flash into a
blaze at once. When Isadore, brought back
from the pier, arrived, it was all that he could

40 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

do to save the horses in the stable and the old
house.

As Susan spoke, I saw Isadore and his uncle
approaching, and, at the same moment, from
the opposite direction, the widow Guion and
Melanie. Isadore's expression was completely
concealed by streaks of smut, his dress was
torn, and his hair disordered. Old Xavier was
grinning. To them marched Madame Guion,
dragging Melanie after her. She did not so
much as glance at us. Then I saw that she
was livid with passion. " M'sieu," said she, in
a voice hardly above a whisper, but holding the
energy of a thunderbolt, " will you know who
set fire to your new house ? "

" Without doubt, Madame," replied Trem-
blay ; and he stopped grinning.

The woman thrust out a long forefinger as
she might have thrust a knife, crying, " Behold
him ! "

It was at Isadore that she stabbed with her
hand, the finger tapping his breast. .He re-
coiled, but answered boldly enough, " Madame,
I do not understand."

"Comment?" said Xavier between his teeth.

" Oway, it is thou, Isadore Clovis," said Ma-
dame Guion, always in the same suppressed,
vibrating tones, " that burned thy uncle's new
house ; I saw it, I, with these eyes. I tell it to

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 41

him and to these Americans, who think that I
should have given my daughter to thee ! "

M^lanie threw a piteous glance around.
" Wait, maman," she begged, ^' he will ex-
plain ! "

" Peste," growled old Xavier, " what have
we here? Speak, Madame, you. Tell what
you have seen."

The widow released her daughter's hand to
have both her own free for dramatic action ;
she spoke rapidly, even fiercely.

" Behold, then, M'sieu' ; I go, this morning,
to buy a pair of boots for Jules, and I pass your
new house. A window has the board hanging
by the one nail. It is natural, is it not ? I, a
mother, wish to view the house where my
daughter shall live. So I look in. Behold Is-
adore, your nephew, in the room. He splits
boxes to pieces, chop ! chop ! with both arms,
view you, he that pretends an arm in a sling.
Then he goes out. I cannot see him, but I
hear chop ! chop ! again. Then he comes back ;
he has, what think you ? a kerosene can in his
hands. He goes through the room. He does
not come back. Then I go away. I think,
' What makes he there ? ' I cannot compre-
hend. A long time passes. It arrives that I
hear them crying the alarm. Your house
burns, M'sieu' ! I run quickly. I am there

42 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

among the first. They break down the door
but the fire jumps out, ponf ! m their faces.
I run to my window ; there, in the room, is the
pile of wood blazing — so high!" lifting her
arms. " So was it in every room. He had
made piles and poured on the kerosene. I have
a nose, I ; I could smell it ! Now, will he deny
it, le scelerat ? "

I suppose we all looked at Isadore. M^lanie
clasped her hands and took a step towards him.
Old Xavier gave his nephew a front view of a
tolerably black scowl. " Eh bien, my nephew,"
said he, " what sayst thou?^''

Isadore's sooty face could not show a change
of color, but in his stiffening muscles, the
straightened arms, and clinched fists one could
see that he was pulling himself together. From
childhood he had been taught to fear the old
man before him, and those whom we fear in our
childhood, we seldom can defy with unbiased
calmness in later years; there is apt to be a
speck of assertion about our very revolt. A
sort of desperate hardihood was visible in Isa-
dore's bearing, now, as he frowned back at his
uncle. " Oway, mon oncle," said he, in a stri-
dent tone, " oway, I burned your accursed
house. Send me to prison. Meme chose."

M^lanie uttered a low moan and covered her
face.

o

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 43

" Come, mon enfant," said the widow gently,
"thou seest now." She would have put her
arm about the girl, but Melanie pushed it aside,
ran straight to Isadore, and caught him around
his neck with both her arms. She was taller
than he, so she drew his head to her breast in-
stead of resting hers upon him.

Old Xavier looked on, motionless. " Bon,"
he said, " why did you do it ? "

Isadore lifted his head. " Why ?" repeated
he ; '* have I the heart of a mouse to see you
take Melanie away from me and do nothing ?
It was to live in the house that you would
marry her. If the house were burned, it might
be that you would build another and live in
it without a wife. Et puis — I burned the
house."

" And thy arm ? Was it hurt ? "

" No," answered the young fellow sullenly,
yet boldly, " I said it to get you away from
home."

" And the gentlemen from the boat ? "

" Some one must bear the blame. They
were smoking. I spoke before Antoine that he
might remember. They would not know them-
selves if they set it afire. There were the shav-
ings and the wood. When they were gone I
came back and made the piles and set them
afire, so that the house should be all afire inside
before it would show outside."

44 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Old Xavier smote his thigh with his hand
and burst into a peal of harsh laughter; I
thought that he had lost his wits ; but no, the
strange old creature simply was tickled by his
nephew's deviltry. " And I called him un
vrai bleche," he muttered. " Madame, you
were right, it is a lad of spirit after all. He
has been sharp enough to make a fool of Xavier
Tremblay, and of you, too, M'sieu'."

There was no denying it, he had, and as I
looked at him, I marveled how I could be so
blind; these nervous, irrational, feminine tem-
peraments, driven to bay, always fight like rats
— desperately. With nothing to lose, Isadora
looked his uncle in the eye and smiled. A
grim and slow smile lighted up the other's
rough features like a reflection ; for the first
time one could trace a resemblance between the
two men.

" Come, Madame," said Xavier, turning to
my wife, " what say you ? "

" This, Monsieur," replied Susan, who alone
of us took the old man's mood for what it was
worth : " he proves himself your own nephew,
since he can cheat you. You don't want the
girl, you don't want the house ; you have
shown that you could do what you please.
Give Melanie to Isadore, and we will see that
he pays you for the house."

o

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY, 45

I saw that Susan meant to get the price of
that picture.

"Non," cried Madame Guion, "I will not
have it so ! " On his part old Xavier actually-
made a sort of bow to my wife, saying : " Ma-
dame, I thank you, but I am rich enough to
give my nephew the house. As for the other
— Madame shall see."

" I say, though, the insurance companies " —
This humble and uncompleted sentence was
started by the writer, but got no further be-
cause of a slim hand over his mouth and a
sweet but peremptory voice in his ear : " Hush,
Maurice, don't you spoil things ! "

So I was mute and looked at Madame Guion.
Her face was a study for a tragedy. I got it
only in profile, for Tremblay had taken her
aside and was whispering to her. She grew
more and more agitated, while he seemed in a
rude way to be trying to soothe her. The two
lovers clung to each other, perhaps feeling their
mutual love the only solid thing in the'^torm.
By this time the loiterers about the ruins had
observed us and gradually drawn nearer, until
a circle of amiable and interested eyes watched
our motions. " My neighbors," said old Xavier,
" approach, I have something to say to you."
Upon this there was a narrowing of the circle,
accompanied by the emerging of a number of

46 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

small children, whose feet twinkled in the air
as they fled, to return, I felt certain, with ab-
sent relatives. " Neighbors," said the village
ogre, in his strong, harsh voice, " attendez ;
you know that I vowed never to go into my
new house until I should marry a maiden of
twenty. I chose Melanie Guion. She prom-
ised to marry me. Is it not so, Melanie ? "

" Oway, M'sieu','' said Melanie, in a trem-
bling voice.

" And are you ready, now, to keep your
promise ? "

" Oway, M'sieu','' the girl said again, though
her voice was fainter and she turned exceed-
ingly pale.

Old Xavier rolled his eyes over the crowd in
sardonic triumph. *' Eh bien, my neighbors,"
said he, " you hear. I have shown you that I
can marry the best, like a young man. Now I
will show you something else. An old man
who marries a young wife is a fool, n'est ce pas,
Emile Badeau ? "

The unhappy Emile shook his fists in help-
less rage, while his neighbors shrugged their
shoulders, Badeau's connubial trials being a
matter of public interest, like everybody else's
so called private affairs, in St. Alphonse.

" Eh bien," continued the ogre, '' I am not
that fool. Why should I marry now ? To go

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 47

into my new house ? View it ! If I build me
another, I need no wife to let me enter it.
And I want peace in my old age. Alors,
Ma'm'selle, merci. But since I take away
your husband, I give you one in my place.
Isadore, my nephew, make Melanie my niece
instead of my wife. But take care, you will
find her harder to drive than Bac ! "

Isadore was like a man struck by lightning.
His eyes glared, his knees shook, he gasped for
breath. But Melanie did the best thing possi-
ble ; she ran to the old man and kissed him.

"Non, non," she sobbed, "pas mon oncle,
mon pere ! "

Doubtless no one had kissed him since
Melanie herself was a child. He looked at
her with a curious expression, almost gentle.
" Oway, mon enfant," he said ; and there was
even a rough dignity in his bearing as he en-
circled her waist with his arm and turned to
the crowd. " And now, my neighbors, do you
hold me free from my vow ? "

The villagers returned a shrill French cheer,
some of them wept, and the more enterprising
embraced me and overwhelmed Susan with a
din of compliments. Only the widow Guion
maintained a stern and bewildered silence. A
bitterly disappointed woman, she was turning
to go her way, when Melanie ran to her.

48 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" Wilt thou not forgive me, maman ? " cried
she, weeping and kissing the wrinkled brown
cheeks, " I shall be so happy ! "

" Chut ! It is not thou that I blame," said
the widow, " but he is a slight creature. Bah,
what use ? It was the will of God. But at
least, thou wilt be rich, he has said it ! "

Then she directed a long glance of fierce
interrogation at me. " You may trust us,
Madame," I said.

" Cela se comprend," answered she inclining
her head towards Susan, " A'vair, Madame."

I am ashamed to confess that I received the
applause of the parish quite as though I de-
served it. On our departure, a week later,
they displayed the flag at the hotel and fired
off an ancient cannon, and all the inhabitants
who were not congregated about the cannon
assembled on the pier, including Isadore (who
wept profusely), Melanie, and old Xavier him-
self. Every man, woman, and child cheered
with enthusiasm. Barring our fears that the
cannon might explode, it was a proud moment,
especially when we overheard the following
conversation between two of our countrymen.

" What are they making all this row
about ? "

" Don't you know ? See that lady and gen-
tleman?— they're Lord and Lady Lansdowne,
just been making a visit."

THE OGRE OF HA HA BAY. 49

At present, Susan and I are home in New-
York. I took the pains to inquire about the
insurance and was relieved to find that there
was none on the house, old Xavier having once
been cheated by an insurance agent, and being
the mortal foe of insurance companies, in conse-
quence. Susan said she did n't think that it
mattered, anyhow. The best of women have
queer notions of public morality. Susan sent
Melanie a great box of wedding finery. In
response, we have received a long letter. Ma-
dame Guion's eyes were cured a month ago.
She is still opposed to the marriage, but Isa-
dora hopes everything from time. Old Xavier
is well and building him a new house.

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND.

The Bishop was walking down the wide
Aiken street. He was the only Bishop in
Aiken, and they made much of him, accord-
ingly, though his diocese was in the West,
which of course was a drawback.

He was a tall man, with a handsome, kind
face under his shovel hat ; portly, as a bishop
should be, and having a twinkle of humor in
his eye. He dressed well and soberly, in the
decorous habiliments of his office. " So Eng-
lish," the young ladies of the Highland Park
Hotel used to whisper to each other, admiring
him. Perhaps this is the time to mention that
the Bishop was a widower.

To-day he walked at a gentle pace, repeat-
edly lifting his hat in answer to a multitude of
salutations ; for it was a bright April day, and
the street was thronged. There was the half-
humorous incongruity between the people and
the place always visible in a place where two
thirds of the population are a mere pleasant-
weather growth, dependent on the climate.
Groups of Northerners stood in the red and

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 61

blue and green door-ways of the gay little shops,
or sauntered past them ; easily distinguished
by their clothing and their air of unaccustomed
and dissatisfied languor. One could pick out
at a glance the new-comers just up from Flor-
ida ; they were so decorated with alligator-
tooth jewelry, and gazed so contemptuously at
the oranges and bananas in the windows. The
native Southerners were equally conspicuous,
in the case of the men, from their careless dress
and placid demeanor. A plentiful sprinkling
of black and yellow skins added to the pictur-
esque character of the scene. Over it all hung
a certain holiday air, the reason for which one
presently detected to be an almost universal
wearing of flowers, — bunches of roses, clusters
of violets or trailing arbutus, or twigs of yellow
jasmine ; while barefooted boys, with dusky
faces and gleaming teeth, proffered nosegays
at every corner. The Aiken nosegay has this
peculiarity, — the flowers are wedged together
with unexampled tightness. Truly enough
may the little venders boast, " Dey 's orful lots
o' roses in dem, mister ; you '11 fin' w'en you
onties 'em." No one of the pedestrians ap-
peared to be in a hurry ; and under all the hol-
iday air of flowers there was a pathetic dispro-
portion of pale and weary faces.

But if they did not hurry on the sidewalk,

62 KNITTERS IN THE SUN

there was plenty of motion in the street ;
horses in Aiken being always urged to their
full speed, — which, to be sure, is not alarming.
Now, carriages were whirling by and riders gal-
loping in both directions. The riders were of
every age, sex, and condition : pretty girls in
jaunty riding habits, young men with polo mal-
lets, old men and children, and grinning ne-
groes lashing their sorry hacks with twigs. Of
the carriages, it would be hard to tell which
was the more noticeable, the smartness of the
vehicles, or the jaded depression of the thin
beasts that pulled them. Where Park and
Ashland Avenues meet at right angles the
crowd was most dense. There, on one side,
one sees the neat little post-office and the pho-
tographer's gallery, and off in the distance the
white pine towers of the hotel, rising out of its
green hills ; on the other, the long street slowly
climbs the hill, through shops and square white
houses with green blinds, set back in luxuriant
gardens. At this corner two persons were
standing, a young man and a young woman,
both watching the Bishop. The young woman
was tall, handsome, and — always an attraction
in Aiken — evidently not an invalid. The
erect grace of her slim figure, the soft and vary-
ing color on her cheek, the light in her beauti-
ful brown eyes, — all were the unmistakable

o

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 53

signs of health. The young man was a good-
looking little fellow, perfectly dressed, and hav-
ing an expression of indolent amusement on his
delicate features. He had light yellow hair,
cut closely enough to show the fine outline of
his head, a slight mustache waxed at the ends,
and a very fair complexion.

The young woman was speaking. " Do you
see to whom my father is talking, Mr. Tal-
boys? " said she.

" Plainly, he has picked up his vagabond."
"Demming? Yes, it ^s Demming."
"Now I wonder, do you know," said the
young man, " what induces the Bishop to waste
his time on such hopeless moral trash as that."
He spoke in a pleasant, slow voice with an
English accent.

" It is n't hopeless to him, I suppose," she
answered. Her voice also was slow, and it was
singularly sweet.

*'I think- it must be his sense of humor," he
continued. " The Bishop loves a joke, and
Demming is a droll fellow. He is a sort of
grim joke himself, you know, a high-toned gen-
tleman who lives by begging. He brings his
bag to the hotels every day. Of course you
have heard him talk, Miss Louise. His strong
card is his wife. ' Th' ole 'ooman 's nigh blin',' "
— here Talboys gave a very good imitation of

64 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

the South Carolina local drawl — "'an' she's
been so tenderly raised she cyan't live 'thout
cyoffee three times a day ! ' "

" I have heard that identical speech," said
Louise, smiling as Talboys knew she would
smile over the imitation. " He gets a good deal
from the Northerners, I fancy."

" Enough to enable him to be a pillar of the
saloons," said Talboys. " He is a lavish soul,
and treats the crowd when he prospers in his
profession. Once his money gave out before
the crowd's thirst. ' Never min', gen'lemen,'
says our friend, ' res' easy. I see the Bishop
agwine up the street ; I '11 git a dollar from
him. Yes, wait ; I won't be gwine long.' "

"And he got the money? "

" Oh, yes. I believe he got it to buy quinine
for ' th' ole 'ooman,' who was down with the
break-bone fever. He is like Yorick, ' a fellow
of infinite jest' — in the way of lying. He
talks well, too. You ought to hear him dis-
course on politics. As he gets most of his rev-
enue from the North, he is kind enough to
express the friendliest sentiments. ' I wuz op-
posed to the wah's bein' ' is his standard speech,
' an' now I 'm opposed to its continnerin'.' For
all that, he was a mild kind of Ku-Klux."

"He did it for money, he says," returned
Louise. " The funniest thing about him is

o

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 55

his absolute frankness after he is found out
in any trick. He doesn't seem to have any
sense of shame, and will fairly chuckle in my
father's face as he is owning up to some piece of
roguery."

" You know he was in the Confederate army.
Fought well, too, I 'm told. What does he do
when the Northerners are gone ? Aiken must
be a pretty bare begging ground."

" Oh, he has a wretched little cabin out in
the woods," said Louise, " and a sweet-potato
patch. He raises sweet-potatoes and persim-

mons "

" And pigs," Talboys interrupted. " I saw
some particularly lean swine grubbing about
in the sand for snakes. They feed on snakes,
in the pine barrens, you know, which serves
two purposes : kills the snakes and fills the
pigs. Entertainment for man and beast, don't
you see ? By the way, talking of being enter-
tained, I know of a fine old Southern manor-
house over the bridge."

Louise shook her head incredulously. " I
have lost faith in Southern manor-houses. Ever
since I came South I have sought them vainly.
All the way from Atlanta I risked my life,
putting my head out of the car windows, to see
the plantations. At every scrubby-looking
little station we passed, the conductor would

56 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

say, ' Mighty nice people live heah ; great deal
of wealth heah before the wah ! ' Then I
would recklessly put my head out. I expected
to see the real Southern mansions of the novel-
ists, with enormous piazzas and Corinthian
pillars and beautiful avenues ; and the white-
washed cabins of the negroes in the middle
distance ; and the planter, in a white linen suit
and a wide straw hat, sitting on the piazza
drinking mint juleps. Well, I don't really
think I expected the planter, but I did hope
for the house. Nothing of the kind. All I
saw was a moderate-sized square house, with
piazzas and a flat roof, all sadly in need of
paint. Now, I 'm like Betsey Prig ; ' I don't
believe there 's no sich person.' It 's a myth,
like the good old Southern cooking."

" Oh, they do exist," said Talboys, his eyes
brightening over this long speech, delivered in
the softest voice in the world. " There are
houses in Charleston and Beaufort and on the
Lower Mississippi that suggest the novels ; but,
on the whole, I think the novelists have played
us false. We expect to find the ruins of luxury
and splendor and all that sort of thing in the
South ; but in point of fact there was very
little luxury about Southern life. They had
plenty of service, such as it was, and plenty of
horses, and that was about all; their other

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 57

household arrangements were painfully primi-
tive. All the same, sha'n't we go over the
bridge ? "

Louise assented, and they turned and went
their way in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile, the Bishop and his vagabond
were talking earnestly. The vagabond seemed
to belong to the class known as "crackers."
Poverty, sickness, and laziness were written in
every flatter of his rags, in every uncouth curve
or angle of his long, gaunt figure and sallow
face. A mass of unkempt iron-gray hair fell
about his sharp features, further hidden by a
grizzly beard. His black frock coat had once
adorned the distinguished and ample person of
a Northern senator ; it wrinkled dismally about
Demming's bones, while its soiled gentility was
a queer contrast to his nether garments of rag-
ged butternut, his coarse boots, and an utterly
disreputable hat, through a hole of which a tuft
of hair had made its way, and waved plume-
wise in the wind. Around the hat was wound
a strip of rusty crape. The Bishop quickly no-
ticed this woeful addition to the man's garb.
He asked the reason.

" She 's done gone, Bishop," answered Dem-
ming, winking his eyes hard before rubbing
them with a grimy knuckle ; " th' ole 'ooman 's
done leff' me 'lone in the worl'. It 's an orful

58 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

'fliction ! " He made so pitiful a figure, stand-
ing there in the sandy road, the wind fluttering
his poor token of mourning, that the Bishop's
kind heart was stirred.

" I am trul}^ sorr}^, Demming," said he.
" Is n't this very sudden ? "

"Laws, yes, Bishop, powerful suddint an'
onprecedented. 'Pears 's if I cud n't git myself
to b'lieve it, nohow. Yes'day ev'nin' she wuz
peart 's evah, out pickin' pine buds ; an' this
mahnin' she woked me up, an' says she, ' I
reckon you 'd better fix the cyoffee yo'self ,
Demming, I feel so cu'se,' says she. An' so I
did ; an' when I come to gin it ter her, oh,
oh Lordy, Lordy ! — 'scuse me. Bishop, — she
wuz cole an' dead ! Doctor cud n't do nuthin',
w'en I fotch 'im. Rheutmatchism o' th' heart,
be says.. It wuz turrible suddint, onyhow.
'Minded me o' them thar games with the thim-
ble, ye know. Bishop, — now ye see it, an'
now ye don' ; yes, 's quick 's thet ! "

The Bishop opened his eyes at the compari-
son ; but Demming had turned away, with a
quivering lip, to bury his face in his hands,
and the Bishop was reproached for his criticism
of the other's naif phraseology. Now, to be
frank, he had approached Demming prepared
to show severity, rather than s^nnpathy, be-
cause of the cracker's last flagrant wrong-do-

o

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 59

ing; but his indignation, righteous though it
"was, took flight before grief. Forgetting judg-
ment in mercy, he proffered all the consolations
he could summon, spiritual and material, and
ended by asking Demming if he had made any
preparations for the funeral.

" Thet thar 's w'at I 'm yere for," replied the
man mournfully. " You know jes how I 'm
fixed. Cyoffins cost a heap; an' then thar 's
the shroud, an' I ain't got no reg'lar fun'al
cloze, an' 'pears 's ef 't 'ud be a conserlation t'
have a kerridge or two. She wuz a bawn lady,
Bishop ; we 're kin ter some o' the real aris-
tookracy o' Carolina, — we air, fur a fac' ; an
I 'd kin' o' like ter hev her ride ter own fun'al,
onyhow."

" Then you will need money ? "

"Not frum you. Bishop, not a red cent; but
if you uns over thar," jerking his thumb in the
direction of the white pine towers, — *' if you
all 'd kin' o' gin me a small sum, an' ef you 'd
jes start a paper, as 't were, an' al-so ef you
yo'self 'ud hev the gret kin'ness ter come out
an' conduc' the fun'al obskesies, it 'ud gratify
the co'pse powerful. Mistress Demming '11 be
entered ^ then like a bawn lady. Yes, sir, thet
thar, an' no mo', 's w'at I 'm emboldened ter ax
frum you."

1 It is supposed that Mr. Demming intended to say " in-
terred."

60 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

The Bishop reflected. " Demming," said he
gravely, " I will try to help you. You have no
objection, I suppose, to our buying the cofl&n
and other things needed. We will pay the
bills."

Demming's dejected bearing grew a shade
more sombre : he waved his hand, a gesture
very common with him, and usually denoting
affable approval ; now it meant gloomy assent.
" No objection 't all. Bishop," he said. " I
knows my weakness, though I don' feel now
like I 'd evah want ter go on no carousements
no mo'. I 'm 'bliged ter you uns jes the same.
An' you won't forget 'bout the cloze ? I 've
been a right good f rien' to th' Norf in Aiken,
an' I hope the Norf '11 stan' by me in the hour
o' trubbel. Now, Bishop, I '11 be gwine 'long.
You '11 fin' me at the cyoffin sto'. Mose Barn-
well — he 's a mighty decent cullud man — lives
nigh me ; he 's gwine fur ter len' me his cyart
ter tek the cyoffin home. Mahnin', Bishop, an'
min', I don' want money outen you. No, sir, I
do not ! "

Then, waving his hand at his hat, the cracker
slouched away. The Bishop had a busy morn-
ing. He went from friend to friend, until the
needed sum was collected. Nor did money sat-
isfy him : he gathered together a suit of clothes
from the tallest Northerners of benevolent iui-

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 61

pulses. Talboys was too short to be a donor of
clothes, but he gave more money than all the
others united, — a munificence that rebuked
the Bishop, for he had sought the young Bos-
ton man last of all and reluctantly ; somehow,
he could not feel acquainted with him, notwith-
standing many meetings in many places. More-
over, he held him in slight esteem, as an idle
fellow who did little good with a great fortune.
In his gratitude he became expansive : told Tal-
boys about his acquaintance with the cracker,
described his experiences and perplexities, and
at last invited the young man to go to the fu-
neral, the next day. Talboys was delighted to
accept the invitation ; yet it could not be said
that he was often delighted. But he admired
the Bishop, and, even more warmly, he admired
the Bishop's daughter ; hence he caught at any
opportunity to show his friendliness. Martin
Talboys was never enthusiastic, and at times
his views of life might be called cynical ; but it
would be a mistake to infer, therefore, that, as
is common enough, he, having a mean opinion
of other people, struck a balance with a very
high one of himself. In truth, Martin was too
modest for his own peace of mind. For years
he had contrived to meet Louise, by accident,
almost everywhere she went. She traveled a
good deal, and her image was relieved against

62 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

a variety of backgrounds. It seemed to him
fairer in each new picture. His love for the
Bishop's daughter grew more and more absorb-
ing ; but at the same time he became less and
less sanguine that she would ever care for him.
Although he was not enthusiastic, he was quite
capable of feeling deeply ; and he had begun to
suspect that he was capable of suffering. Yet
he could not force himself to decide his fate by
speaking. It was not that Louise disliked him :
on the contrary, she avowed a sincere liking ;
she always hailed his coming with pleasure,
telling him frankly that no one amused her as
did he. There, alas, was the hopeless part of
it ; he used to say bitterly to himself that he
was n't a man, a lover, to her ; he was a mimic,
a genteel clown, an errand boy, never out of
temper with his work ; in short, she did not
take him seriously at all. He knew the man-
ner of man she did take seriously, — a man of
action, who had done something in the world.
Once she told Talboys that he was a " capital
observer." She made the remark as a compli-
ment, but it stung him to the quick ; he real-
ized that she thought of him only as an ob-
server. "When a trifling but obstinate throat
complaint brought the Bishop to Aiken, Tal-
boys felt a great longing to win his approval.
Surely, Louise, who judged all men by her fa-

o

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 63

ther's standard, must be influenced by her fa-
ther's favor. Unhappily, the Bishop had never,
as the phrase goes, " taken " to Talboys, nor
did he seem more inclined to take to him now,
and Martin was too modest to persist in unwel-
come attentions. But he greeted the present
opportunity all the more warmly.

In the morning, the three — the Bishop,
Louise, and Talboys — drove to the cracker's
cabin. The day was perfect, one of those Ai-
ken days, so fair that even invalids find no com-
plaint in their wearisome list to bring against
them and can but sigh over each, " Ah, if all
days might only be like this ! " Hardly a cloud,
marred the tender blue of the sky. The air
was divinely soft. They drove through the
woods, and the ground was carpeted with dry
pine spikes, whereon their horses' hoofs made a
dull and pleasant sound. A multitude of vio-
lets grew in the little spaces among the trees.
Yellow jasmine flecked the roadside shade with
gold, its fragrance blending with the keen odors
of the pine. If they looked up, they saw the
pine tops etched upon the sky, and a solemn,
ceaseless murmur beat its organ-like waves
through all their talk. The Bishop had put
on his clerical robes : he sat on the back seat
of the carriage, a superb figure, with his noble
head and imposing mien. As they rolled along,

64 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

the Bishop talked. He spoke of death. He
spoke not as a priest, but as a man, dwelling on
the mystery of death, bringing up those specu-
lations with which from the beginning men
have striven to light the eternal darkness.

" I suppose it is the mystery," said the
Bishop, *' which causes the unreality of death,
its perpetual surprise. Now, behind my cer-
tainty of this poor woman's death I have a lurk-
ing expectation of seeing her standing in the
doorway, her old clay pipe in her mouth. I
can't help it."

" Though she was a ' bawn lady,' she smoked,
did she ? " said Talboys. Then he felt the re-
mark to be hopelessly below the level of the
conversation, and made haste to add, " I sup-
pose it was a consolation to her ; she had a
pretty hard life, I fancy."

" Awfully," said Louise. " She was nearly
blind, poor woman, yet I think she did what-
ever work was done. I have often seen her
hoeing. I believe that Demming was always
good to her, though. He is a most amiable
creature."

"Singular how a woman will bear any
amount of laziness, actual worthlessness, in-
deed, in a man who is good to her," the Bishop
remarked.

" Beautiful trait in her character," said Tal-
boys. " Where should we be without it? "

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 65

" Have the Demmings never had any chil-
dren ? " asked Louise, who did not like the
turn the talk was taking.

" Yes, one," the Bishop answered, " a little
girl. She died three years ago. Demming
was devotedly attached to her. He can't talk
of her now without the tears coming into his
eyes. He really," said the Bishop meditatively,
"seemed more affected when he told me about
her death than he was yesterday. She died
of some kind of low fever, and was ill a long
time. He used to walk up and down the little
path through the woods, holding her in his
arms. She would wake up in the night and
cry, and he would wrap her in an old army
blanket, and pace in front of the house for
hours. Often the teamsters driving into town
at break of day, with their loads of wood,
would come on him thus, walking and talking
to the child, with the little thin face on his
shoulder, and the ragged blanket trailing on
the ground. Ah, Demming is not altogether
abandoned, he has an affectionate heart ! "

Neither of his listeners made any response :
Talboys, because of his slender faith in Dem-
ming ; Louise, because she was thinking that
if the Aiken laundresses were intrusted with
her father's lawn many more times there would
be nothing left to darn. They went on silently,

m KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

therefore, until the Bishop said, in a low voice,
'' Here we are ! "

The negro driver, with the agility of a coun-
try coachman, had already sprung to the ground,
and was holding the carriage door open.

Before them lay a small cleared tract of
land, where a pleasant greenness of young po-
tato vines hid the sand. In the centre was a
tumble-down cabin, with a mud chimney on the
outside. The one window had no sash, and its
rude shutter hung precariously by a single
leathern hinge. The door was open, revealing
that the interior was papered with newspapers.
Three or four yelping curs seemed to be all the
furniture.

There was nothing extraordinary in the pic-
ture ; one could see fifty such cabins, in a ra-
dius of half a mile. Nor was there anything
of mark in the appearance of Demming himself,
dressed exactly as he was the day before, and
rubbing his eyes in the doorway. But behind
him ! The coachman's under jaw dropped be-
neath the weight of a loud *' 'Fo' de Lawd ! "
The Bishop's benignant countenance was sud-
denly crimsoned. Talboys and Louise looked
at each other, and bit their lips. It was only
a woman, — a tall, thin, bent woman in a
shabby print gown, with a faded sunbonnet
pushed back from her gray head and a common

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 67

clay pipe between her lips. Probably in her
youth she had been a pretty woman, and the
worn features and dim eyes still retained some-
thing engaging in their expression of timid
good-will.

" Won' you all step in?" she said, advanc-
ing.

"Yes, yes," added Demming, inclining his
body and waving both hands with magnificent
courtesy ; " alight, gentlemen, alight ! I 'm
sorry I ain't no staggah juice to offah ye, but
yo' right welcome to sweet-'taters an' pussim-
mon beah, w'ich 's all " —

" Demming," said the Bishop sternly, "what
does this mean ? I came to bury Mrs. Dem-
ming, and — and here she is ! "

" Burry me I " exclaimed the woman. " Why,
I ain't dead ! "

Demming rubbed his hands, his face wearing
an indescribable expression of mingled embar-
rassment, contrition, and bland insinuation.
"Well, yes. Bishop, yere she is, an' no mis-
take ! Nuthin' more 'n a swond, you unner-
stan'. I 'lowed ter notify you uns this mahnin',
but fac' is I wuz so decomposed, fin'in' her
traipsin' 'bout in the gyardin an' you all 'xpect-
in' a fun'al, thet I jes hed ter brace up ; an' fac'
is I braced up too much, an' ovahslep. I 'm
powerful sorry, an' I don' blame you uns ef you
do feel mad ! "

68 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

The Bishop flung off his robes in haste and
walked to the carriage, where he bundled them
in with scant regard for their crispness.

" Never heard of such a thing ! " said Louise,
that being her invariable formula for occasions
demanding expression before she was prepared
to commit herself. By this time a glimmering
notion of the state of things had reached the
coachman's brain, and he was in an ecstasy.
Talboys thought it fitting to speak. He turned
to Mrs. Demming, who was looking from one
to another of the group, in a scared way.

" Were you in a swoon ? " he asked.

" Oh, laAvs ! " cried the poor woman. " Oh,
Demming, what hev you done gone an' done
now ? Gentlemen, he did n't mean no harm,
I 'm suah ! "

" You were not^ then ? " said Talboys.

" Leave her 'lone, Gunnel," Demming said
quietly. "Don' yo' see she cyan't stan' no
sech racket? 'Sence yo' so mighty peart 'bout
it, no, she wahn't, an' thet thar 's the truf. I
jes done it fur ter raise money. It was this a
way. Thet thar mahnin', w'ile I wuz a-consid-
erin' an' a-contemplatin' right smart how I
wuz evah to git a few dollars, I seen Mose
Barnwell gwine 'long, — yo' know Mose Barn-
well," turning in an affable, conversational way
to the grinning negro, — " an' he *d a string o'

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 69

crape 'roun' his hat 'cause he 'd jes done loss'
his wife, an' he wuz purportin' ter git a cyoffin.
So I 'lowed I 'd git a cyoffin fur him cheap.
An' I reckon," said Demming, smiling gra-
ciously on his delighted black auditor, — "I
reckon I done it."

" Demming," cried the Bishop, with some
heat, " this exceeds patience " —

"I know. Bishop," answered the vagabond
meekly, — "I know it. I wuz tempted an' I
fell, as you talked 'bout in yo' sermon. It 's
orful how I kin do sech things ! "

" And those chickens, too ! " ejaculated the
Bishop, with rising wrath, as new causes rushed
to his remembrance. " You stole chickens, —
Judge Eldridge's chickens ; you who pretend
to be such a stanch friend of the North " —

" Chickens ! " screamed the woman. " Oh,
Lordy ! Oh, he nevah done thet afo'e ! He '11
be took to jail ! Oh, Demming, how cud ye ?
Stealin' chickens, jes like a low-down, no-
'cyount niggah ! " Sobs choked her voice, and
tears of fright and shame were streaming down
her hollow cheeks.

Demming looked disconcerted. " Now, look
a-yere ! " said he, sinking his voice reproach-
fully ; " w'at wuz the use o' bringin' thet thar
up befo' th' ole 'ooman ? She don' know nuth-
in' on it, you miners tan', an' why mus' you rila

70 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

'er up fur ? I 'd not a thought it o' you,
Bishop, thet I wud n't. Now, Alwynda,"
turning to the weeping woman, who was wip-
ing her eyes with the cape of her sunbonnet,
"jes you dry up an' stop yo' bellerin', an' I
'splain it all in a holy minnit. Thar, thar,"
patting her on the shoulder, *' 't ain't nuthin'
ter cry 'bout ; 't ain't no fault o' yourn, ony-
how. 'Fac' is, gen'lemen, 't wuz all 'long o'
my 'preciation o' the Bishop. I 'm a 'Piscopal,
like yo'self, Bishop, an' I tole Samson Mobley
thet you overlaid all the preachers yere fur
goodness an' shortness bofe. An' he 'lowed,
' Mebbe he may fur goodness ; I ain't no jedge,'
says he ; ' but fo' shortness, we 've a feller down
at the Baptis' kin beat 'im outen sight. They
've jes 'gin up sleepin' down thar,' says he,
' 'cause 't ain't worth w'ile.' So we tried it on,
you unnerstand, 'cause thet riled me, an' I jes
bet on it, I did ; an' we tried it on, — you in
the mahnin' and him in the ev'nin'. An' laws,
ef did n't so happen as how you 'd a powerful
flow o' speech ! 'T wuz 'mazin' edifyin', but 't
los' me the bet, you unnerstan' ; an' onct los' I
bed ter pay ; an' not havin' ary chick o' my
own I had ter confiscate some frum th' gineral
public, an' I tuk 'em 'thout distinction o' party
frum the handiest coop in the Baptis' dernomi-
nation. I kin' o' hankered arter Baptis' chick-

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 71

UDS, somehow, so 's ter git even, like. Now,
Bishop, I jes leaves ter you uns, cud I go back
on a debt o' honah, like thet? "

" Honor ! " repeated the Bishop scornfully.

Talboys interposed again : " We appear to
be sold. Bishop ; don't you think we had better
get out of this before the hearse comes ? "

Demming waved his hand at Talboys, saying
in his smoothest tones, '' Ef you meet it. Gun-
nel, p'raps you 'd kin'ly tell 'em ter go on ter
Mose Barnwell's. He 's ready an' waitin'."

"Demming" — began the Bishop, but he
did not finish the sentence : instead, he lifted
his hat to Mrs. Demming, with his habitual
stately courtesy, and moved in a slow and dig-
nified manner to the carriage. Louise followed,
only stopping to say to the still weeping woman,
" He is in no danger from us ; but this trick
was a poor return for my father's kindness."

Demming had been rubbing his right eye-
brow obliquely with his hand, thus making a
shield behind which he winked at the coach-
man in a friendly and humorous manner ; at
Louise's words, his hand fell and his face
changed quickly. " Don' say thet, miss," he
said, a ring of real emotion in his voice. "I
know I 'm purty po' pickin's, but I ain't on-
grateful. Yo' pa will remember I wyould n't
tek no money frum him!^^

72 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" I would have given fifty dollars," cried the
Bishop, " rather than have had this — this
scandalous fraud ! Drive on ! "

They drove away. The last they saw of
Demming he was blandly waving his hand.

The drive back from the house so unexpect-
edly disclosed as not a house of mourning was
somewhat silent. The Bishop was the first to
speak. " I shall insist upon returning every
cent of that money," he said.

" I assure you none of us will take it," Tal-
boys answered ; " and really, you know, the
sell was quite worth the money."

" And you did see her, after all," said Louise
dryly, " standing in the doorway, with her old
clay pipe in her mouth."

The Bishop smiled, but he sighed, too.
" Well, well, I ought not to have lost my tem-
per. But I am disappointed in Demming. I
thought I had won his affection, and I hoped
through his affection to reach his conscience.
I suppose I deceived myself."

" I fear he has n't any conscience to reach,"
Louise observed.

" I agree with Miss Louise," said Talboys.
" You see, Demming is a cracker."

" Ah ! the cracker has his virtues," observed
the Bishop ; "not the cardinal New England
virtues of thrift and cleanliness and energy;

o

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 73

but he has his own. He is as hospitable as an
Arab, brave, faithful, and honest, and full of
generosity and kindness."

" All the same, he is n't half civilized," said
Talboys, " and as ignorant morally as any be-
ing you can pick up. He does n't steal or lie
much, I grant you, but he smashes all the other
commandments to flinders. He kills when he
thinks he has been insulted, and he has n't the
feeblest scruples about changing his old wife
for a new one whenever he feels like it, with-
out any nonsense of divorce. The women are
just as bad as the men. But Demming is not
only a cracker ; he is a cracker spoiled by the
tourists. We have despoiled him of his sim-
plicity. He has n't learned any good of us, —
that goes without saying, — but he has learned
no end of Yankee tricks. Do you suppose that
if left to himself he would ever have been up
to this morning's performance? Oh, we've
polished his wicked wits for him ! Even his
dialect is no longer pure South Carolinian ; it
is corrupted by Northern slang. We have
ruined his religious principles, too. The crack-
ers have n't much of any morality, but they are
very religious, — all Southerners are. But
Demming is an unconscious Agnostic. ' I tell
ye,' he says to the saloon theologians, ' thar
ain't no tellin'. 'Ligion 's a heap like jumpin'

74 KNITTERS IN THE SUN. '

a'ter a waggin in th' dark : yo' mo' 'n likely
ter Ian' on nuthin' ! ' And you have seen for
yourselves that he has lost the cracker honesty."

" At least," said Louise, " he has the cracker
hospitality left ; he made us welcome to all he
had."

" And did you notice," said the Bishop, who
had quite smoothed his ruffled brow by this
time, — " did you notice the consideration, ten-
derness almost, that he showed to his wife?
Demming has his redeeming qualities, believe
me, Mr. Talboys."

" I see that you don't mean to give him up,"
said Talboys, smiling; but he did not pursue
the subject.

For several days Demming kept away from
Aiken. When he did appear he rather avoided
the Bishop. He bore the jokes and satirical
congratulations of his companions with his us-
ual equanimity ; but he utterly declined to
gratify public curiosity either at the saloon or
the grocery. One morning he met the Bishop.
They walked a long way together, and it was
observed that they seemed to be on most cor-
dial terms. This happened on Tuesday. Fri-
day morning Demming came to the Bishop in
high spirits. He showed a letter from a cousin
in Charleston, a very old man, with no near
kindred and a comfortable property. This

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 75

cousin, repenting of an old injustice to Dem-
ming's mother, had bethought him of Dem-
ming, his nearest relative ; and sent for him,
inclosing money to pay all expenses. *' He is
right feeble," said Demming, with a cheerful
accent not according with his mournful words,
*' an' wants ter see me onct fo' he departs.
Reckon he means ter do well by me."

The Bishop's hopeful soul saw a chance for
the cracker's reclamation. So he spoke sol-
emnly to him, warning him against periling
his future by relapsing into his old courses in
Charleston. Nothing could exceed Demming's
bland humility. He filled every available
pause in the exhortation with " Thet 's so,"
and " Shoo 's yo' bawn ! " and answered, " I 'm
gwine ter be 's keerful 's a ole coon thet 's jes
got shet o' the dogs. You nevah said truer
words than them thar, an' don' you forget it!
I 'm gwine ter buy mo' Ian', an' raise hogs, an'
keep th' ole 'ooman like a lady. Don' ye be
'feard o' me gwine on no' mo' tears. No, sir,
none o' thet in mine. 'T wuz ony 'cause I wuz
so low in my min' I evah done it, onyhow.
Now, I 'm gwine ter be *s sober 's a owl ! "

Notwithstanding these and similar protes-
tations, hardly an hour was gone before Dem-
ming was the glory of the saloon, haranguing
the crowd on his favorite topic, the Bishop's

76 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

virtues. " High-toned gen'leman, bes' man in
the worl', an' nobody's fool, neither. I 'm
proud to call him my frien', an' Aiken's put in
its bes' licks w'en it cured him. Gen'lemen, he
'vised me ter fight shy o' you all. I reckon as
how I mought be better off ef I 'd alius a fol-
lered his ammonitions. Walk up, gen'lemen,
an' drink his health ! My 'xpens'."

The sequel to such toasts may readily be im-
agined. By six o'clock, penniless and tipsy,
Demming was apologizing to the Bishop on the
hotel piazza. He had the grace to seem
ashamed of himself. " Wust o' 't is flingin'
away all thet money; but I felt kinder like
makin' everybody feel good, an' I set 'em up.
An' 't 'appened, somehow, they wuz a right
smart o' people in, jes thet thar minit, — they
gen'rally is a right smart o' people in when a
feller sets 'em up ! an' they wuz powerful dry,
— they gen'rally is dry, then ; an' the long an'
short o' 't is, they cleaned me out. An' now,
Bishop, I jes feel nashuated with myself. Suah
's yo' bawn. Bishop, I 'm gwine ter reform.
' Stop short, an' nevah go on again,' like thet
thar clock in the song. I am, fur a fac', sir.
I 'm repentin' to a s'prisin' extent."

" I certainly should be surprised if you ivere
repentant," the Bishop said, dryly ; then, after
a pause, " Well, Demming, I will help you this

o

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 77

once again. I will buy you a ticket to Charles-
ton."

Some one had come up to the couple unper-
ceived ; this person spoke quickly : " Please let
me do that, Bishop. Demming has afforded
me enough entertainment for that."

" You don' think no gret shakes o' me, do
you, Gunnel?" said Demming, looking at Tal-
boys half humorously, yet with a shade of some-
thing else in his expression. " You poke fun
at me all the time. Well, pleases you, an' don'
hurt me, I reckon. Mahnin', Bishop ; mahnin',
Gunnel. I'll be at th' deppo." He waved
his hand and shambled away. Both men looked
after him.

" I will see that he gets off," said Talboys.
"I leave Aiken, myself, in the morning."

" Leave Aiken ? " the Bishop repeated. "But
you will return ? "

" I don't expect to."

" Why, I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Talboys,
— truly sorry." The Bishop took the young
man's hand and pressed it. " I am just begin-
ning to know you ; I may say, to like you, if
you will permit the expression. Won't you
walk in with me now, and say good-by to my
daughter ? "

" Thanks, very much, but I have already
made my adieux to Miss Louise."

78 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

"Ah, yes, certainly," said the Bishop, ab-
sently.

He was an absorbed clergyman ; but he had
sharp enough eyes, did he choose to use them ;
and Talboys' reddening cheeks told him a great
deal. It cannot be said that he was sorry be-
cause his daughter had not looked kindly on
this worldly and cynical young man's affection ;
but he was certainly sorry for the young man
himself, and his parting grasp of the hand was
warmer than it would have been but for that
fleeting blush.

" Poor fellow, poor fellow ! " soliloquized the
Bishop, when, after a few cordial words, they
had parted. " He looks as though it had hurt
him. I suppose that is the way we all take it.
Well, time cures us : but it would scarcely do
to tell him that, or how much harder it is to
win a woman, find how precious she is, and then
to lose her. Ah, well, time helps even that.
' For the strong years conquer us.' "

But he sighed as he went back to his daugh-
ter, and he did not see the beautiful Miss Rey-
nolds when she bowed to him, although she was
smiling her sweetest and brightest smile.

Louise sat in her room. Its windows opened
upon the piazza, and she had witnessed the in-
terview. She did not waver in her conviction
that she had done right. She could not wisely

o

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 79

marry a man whom she did not respect, let his
charm of manner and temper be what it might.
She needed a man who was manly, who could
rule other men ; besides, how could she make
up her mind to walk through life with a husband
hardly above her shoulder ? Still, she conceded
to herself that, had Talboys compelled one
thrill of admiration from her by any mental or
moral height, she would not have caviled at his
short stature. But there was something ridicu-
lous in the idea of Talboys thrilling anybody.
For one thing, he took everything too lightly.
Suddenly, with the sharpness of a new sensa-
tion, she remembered that he had not seemed
to take the morning's episode lightly. Poor
Martin ! — for the first time, even in her rev-
eries, she called him by his Christian name, —
there was an uncomfortable deal of feeling in
his few words. Yet he was considerate ; he
made it as easy as possible for her.

Martin was always considerate ; he never
jarred on her ; possibly, the master mind might
jar, being so masterful. He was always kind,
too ; continually scattering pleasures about in
his quiet fashion. Such a quiet fashion it was
that few people noticed how persistent was the
kindness. Now a hundred instances rushed to
her mind. All at once, recalling something,
she blushed hotly. That morning, just as Tal-

80 KNITTERS, IN THE SUN

boys and she were turning from the place where
he had asked and she had answered, she caught
a glimpse of Demming's head, through the
leaves. He had turned, also, and he made a
feint of passing them, as though he were but
that instant walking by. The action had a
touch of delicacy in it ; a Northerner of Dem-
ming's class would not have shown it. Louise
felt grateful to the vagabond ; at the same time,
it was hardly pleasant to know that he was as
wise as she in Talboys' heart affairs. As for
Talboys himself, he had not so much as seen
Demming ; he had been too much occupied with
his own bitter thoughts. Again Louise mur-
mured, " Poor Martin ! " What was the need,
though, that her own heart should be like lead ?
Almost impatiently, she rose and sought her
father.

The Bishop, after deliberation, had decided
to accompany Demming to Charleston. He
excused his interest in the man so elaborately
and plausibly that his daughter was reminded
of Talboys.

Saturday morning all three — the Bishop, the
vagabond, and Talboys — started for Charles-
ton. Talboys, however, did not know that the
Bishop was going. He bought Demming's
ticket, saw him safely to a seat, and went into
the smoking-car. The Bishop was late, but the

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 81

conductor, with true Southern good-nature,
backed the train and took him aboard. He
seated himself in front of Demming, and began
to wipe his heated brow.

" Why do they want to have a fire in the
stove this weather ? " said he.

" Well," said the cracker slyly, " you see we
hain't all been runnin', an' we 're kinder chilly ! "
" Humph ! " said the Bishop. After this
there was silence. The train rolled along;
through the pine woods, past small stations
where rose-trees brightened trim white cottages,
then into the swamp lands, where the moisture
painted the bark of tall trees, and lay in shiny
green patches among them. The Southern
moss dripping from the giant branches shrouded
them in a weird drapery, soft as mist. There
was something dreary and painful to a Northern
eye, in the scene ; the tall and shrouded trees,
the stagnant pools of water gleaming among
them, the vivid green patches of moss, the bar-
ren stretches of sand. The very beauty in it
all seemed the unnatural glory of decay, repel-
ling the beholder. Here and there were cabins.
One could not look at them without wondering
whether the inhabitants had the ague, or its
South Carolina synonym, the " break - bone
fever." At one, a bent old woman was wash-
ing. She lifted her head, and Demming waved

82 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

his hat at her. Then he glanced at the Bishop,
now busy with a paper, and chuckled over some
recollection. He looked out again. There was
a man running along the side of the road waving
a red flag. He called out a few words, which
the wind of the train tore to pieces. At the
same instant, the whistle of the engine began a
shrill outcry. " Sunthin' 's bust, I reckon,"
said Demming. And then, before he could see,
or know, or understand, a tremendous crash
drowned his senses, and in one awful moment
blended shivering glass and surging roof and
white faces like a horrible kaleidoscope.

The first thing he noticed, when he came to
himself, was a thin ribbon of smoke. He
watched it lazily, while it melted into the blue
sky, and another ribbon took its place. But
presently the pain in his leg aroused him. He
perceived that the car was lying on one side,
making the other side into a roof, and one open
window was opposite his eyes. At the other
end the car was hardly more than a mass of
broken seats and crushed sides, but it was al-
most intact where he lay. He saw that the
stove had charred the wood- work near it ; hence
the smoke, which escaped through a crack and
floated above him. The few people in the car
were climbing out of the windows as best they
might. A pair of grimy arms reached down to

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 83

Demming, and he heard the brakeman's voice
(he knew Jim Herndon, the brakeman, well)
shouting profanely for the " next."

" Whar 's the Bishop ? " said Demming.

" Reckon he 's out," answered Jim. " Mought

as well come yo'self ! H ! you 've broke

yo' leg ! "

" Pull away, jes the same. I don' wanter
stay yere an' roast ! "

The brakeman pulled him through the win-
dow. Demming shut his teeth hard ; only the
fear of death could have made him bear the aor-
ony every motion gave him.

The brakeman drew him to one side before
he left him. Demming could see the wreck
plainly. A freight train had been thrown from
the track, and the passenger train had run into
it while going at full speed. " The brakes
wouldn't work," Demming heard Jim say.
Now the sight was a sorry one : a heap of rub-
bish which had been a freight car ; the passen-
ger engine sprawling on one side, in the swamp,
like a huge black beetle ; and, near it, the two
foremost cars of its train overturned and shat-
tered. The people of both trains were gathered
about the wreck, helplessly talking, as is the
manner of people in an accident. They were,
most of them, on the other side of the track.
No one had been killed ; but some were

84 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

wounded, and were stretched in a ghastly row
on car cushions. The few women and children
in the train were collected about the wounded.

" Is the last man out ? " shouted the conduc-
tor.

Jim answered, "Yes, all out — no, d it !

I see a coat tail down here."

" Look at the fire ! " screamed a woman.
« Oh, God help him ! The car 's afire ! "

" He 's gone up, whoever he is," muttered
Jim. " They ain't an axe nor nothin' on
board, an' he's wedged in fast. But come on,
boys ! I '11 drop in onct mo' ! "

" You go with him," another man said.
" Here, you fellows, I can run fastest ; I '11 go
to the cabin for an axe. Some of you follow
me for some water ! "

Demming saw the speaker for an instant, —
an erect little figure in a foppish gray suit, with
a " cat's eye " gleaming from his blue cravat.
One instant he stood on the piece of timber
upon which he had jumped ; the next he had
flung off his coat, and was speeding down the
road like a hare.

" D ef 't ain't the Gunnel," said Dem-
ming.

" Come on ! " shouted Talboys, never slack-
ening his speed. " Hurry ! "

The men went. Demming, weak with pain,

o

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 85

was content to look across the gap between the
trams and watch those left behind. The smoke
was growmg denser now, and tongues of flame
shot out between the joints of wood. They
said the man was at the other end. Happily,
the wind blew the fire from him. Jim and two
other men climbed in, again. Demming could
hear them swearing and shouting. He looked
anxiously about, seeking a familiar figure which
he could not find. He thought it the voice of
his own fears, that cry from within the car.
" Good God, it 's the Bishop ! " But immedi-
ately Jim thrust his head out of the window,
and called, " The Bishop 's in hyar ! Under
the cyar seats ! He ain't hurt, but we cyant
move the infernal things ter get him out ! "

" Oh, Lordy ! " groaned the vagabond ; " an'
I 'm so broke up I cyant liff' a han' ter help
him ! " ■

In desperation, the men outside tried to bat-
ter down the car walls with a broken tree
limb. Inside, they strained feverishly at the
heavy timbers. Vain efforts all, at which the
crackling flames, crawling always nearer,
seemed to mock.

Demming could hear the talk, the pitying
comments, the praise of the Bishop : " Such a
good man ! " " His poor daughter, the only
child, and her mother dead ! " " They were

86 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

SO fond of each other, poor thing, poor thing ! "
And a soft voice added, '* Let us pray ! "

" PrayinV' muttered Demming, "jes like
wimmen ! Laws, they don't know no better.
How '11 I git ter him ? "

He began to crawl to the car, dragging his
shattered leg behind him, reckless of the throbs
of pain it sent through his nerves. " Ef I kin
ony stan' it till I git ter him ! " he moaned.
" Burnin' alive 's harder nor this." He felt
the hot smoke on his face ; he heard the snap-
ping and roaring of the fire ; he saw the men
about the car pull out Jim and his companions,
and perceived that their faces were blackened.

" It '11 cotch me, suah 's death ! " said Dem-
ming between his teeth. '' Well, 't ain't much
mattah ! " Mustering all his strength he pulled
himself up to the car window below that from
which Jim had just emerged. The crowd, oc-
cupied with the helpless rescuers, had not ob-
served him before. They shouted at him as
one man : " Get down, it 's too late I " " You 're
crazy, you ! " yelled Jim, with an oath.

"Never you min'," Demming answered coolly.
" I know what I 'm 'bout, I reckon."

He had taken his revolver from his breast,
and was searching through his pockets. He
soon pulled out what he sought, merely a piece
of stout twine ; and the crowd saw him, sitting

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 87

astride the trucks, while he tied the string
about the handle of the weapon. Then he
leaned over the prison walls, and looked down
upon the Bishop. Under the mass of wood and
iron the Bishop lay, unhurt but securely im-
prisoned ; yet he had never advanced to the
chancel rails with a calmer face than that he
lifted to his friend.

" Demming," he cried, " you here ! Go
back, I implore you ! You can't save me."

" I know thet. Bishop," groaned the cracker.
" I ain't aimin' ter. But I cyan't let you roast

in this yere d barbecue ! Look a yere ! "

He lowered the revolver through the window.
" Thar 's a pistil, an' w'en th' fire cotches onter
you an' yo' gwine suah 's shootin', then put it
ter yo' head an' pull the trigger, an' yo '11 be
outen it all ! "

The Bishop's firm pale face grew paler as
he answered, " Don't tempt me, Demming !
Whatever God sends I must bear. I can't do
it ! " Demming paused. He looked steadily
at the Bishop for a second ; then he raised the
revolver, with a little quiver of his mouth.
" And go away, for God's sake, my poor friend!
Bear my love to my dear, dear daughter ; tell
her that she has always been a blessing and a
joy to me. And remember what I have said to
you, yourself. It will be worth dying for if

88 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

you will do that ; it will, indeed. It is only a
short pain, and then heaven ! Now go, Dem-
ming. God bless and keep you. Go ! "

But Demming did not move. ''Don' you
want ter say a prayer, Bishop ? " he said in a
coaxing tone, — " jes a little mite o' one fur
you an' me ? Ye don' need ter min' 'bout sayin'
't loud. I '11 unnerstan' th' intention, an' feel
jes so edified. I will, fur a fac."

" Go, first, Demming. I am afraid for you! "

" I 'm a-gwine. Bishop," said Demming, in
the same soft, coaxing tone. " Don' min' me.
I 'm all right." He crouched down lower, so
that the Bishop could not see him, and the
group below saw him rest the muzzle of the
pistol on the window-sill and take aim.

A gasp ran through the crowd, — that catch-
ing of the breath in which overtaxed feeling
relieves itself. " He 's doin' the las' kindness
he can to him," said the brakeman to the con-
ductor, " and by the Lord, he 's giv' his own
life to do it ! "

The flames had pierced the roof, and streamed
up to the sky. Through the sickening, dull
roar they heard the Bishop's voice again : —

" Demming, are you gone ? "

The cracker struck a loose piece of wood, and
sent it clattering down. " Yes, Bishop, that
wuz me. I 'm safe on th' groun'. Good-by,

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND, 89

Bishop. I do feel 'bleeged ter you ; an', Bishop,
them chickens wuz the fust time. They wuz,
on my honah. Now, Bishop, shet yo' eyes an'
pray, fur it 's a-comin ! "

The Bishop prayed. They could not hear
what he said, below. No one heard save the
uncouth being who clung to the window, revol-
ver in hand, steadily eying the creeping red
death. But they knew that, out of sight, a
man who had smiled on them, full of life and
hope but an hour ago, was facing such torture
as had tried the martyr's courage, and facing it
with as high a faith.

With one accord men and women bent their
heads. Jim, the brakeman, alone remained
standing, his form erect, his eyes fixed on the
two iron lines that made an angle away in the
horizon. " Come on ! " he yelled, leaping wildly
into the air. " Fo' the Lord's sake, hurry !
D — him, but he 's the bulliest runner ! "

Then they all saw a man flying down the
track, axe in hand. He ran up to the car side.
He began to climb. A dozen hands caught
him. " You 're a dead man if you get in there ! "
was the cry. " Don't you see it 's all afire ? "

" Try it from the outside, Colonel ! " said the
conductor.

" Don't you see I have n't time ? " cried Tal-
boys. " He '11 be dead before we can get to

90 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

him. Stand back, my men, and, Jim, be ready
to pull us both out! "

The steady tones and Talboys' business-like
air had an instantaneous effect. The crowd
were willing enough to be led ; they fell back,
and Talboys dropped through the window. To
those outside the whole car seemed in a blaze,
and over them the smoke hung like a pall ; but
through the crackling and roaring and the crash
of falling timber came the clear ring of axe
blows, and Talboys' voice shouting, " I say, my
man, don't lose heart ! We 're bound to get
you out ! "

" Lordy, he don't know who 't is," said Dem-
ming. "Nobody could see through that thar
smoke ! " v

All at once the uninjured side of the car
gave way beneath the flames, falling in with an
immense crash. The flame leaped into the air.

" They 're gone ! " cried the conductor.

"No, they're not!" yelled Demming. "He's
got him, safe an' soun' ! " And as he spoke,
scorched and covered with dust, bleeding from
a cut on his cheek but holding the Bishop in
his arms, Talboys appeared at the window.
Jim snatched the Bishop, the conductor helped
out Talboys, and half a dozen hands laid hold
of Demming. He heard the wild cheer that
greeted them ; he heard another cheer for the

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 91

men with the water, just in sight; but he heard
no more, for as they pulled him down a dozen
fiery pincers seemed tearing at his leg, and he
fainted dead away.

The Bishop's daughter sat in her room, mak-
ing a very pretty picture, with her white hands
clasped on her knee and her soft eyes uplifted.
She looked sad enough to please a pre-Raphael-
ite of sentiment. Yet her father, whom this
morning she would have declared she loved
better than any one in the world, had just been
saved from a frightful death. She knew the
story of his deliverance. At last she felt that
most unexpected thrill of admiration for Tal-
boys ; but Talboys had vanished. He was
gone, it was all ended, and she owned to herself
that she was wretched. Her father was with
Demming and the doctors. The poor vagabond
must hobble through life on one leg, hencefor-
ward. " If he lived," the doctor had said, mak-
ing even his existence as a cripple problematic.
Poor Demming, who had flung away his life to
save her father from suffering, — a needless,
useless sacrifice, as it proved, but touching
Louise the more because of its very failure !

At this stage in her thoughts, she heard Sam,
the waiter, knocking softly, outside. Her first
question was about Demming. " The opera-

92 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

tion 's ovah, miss, an' Mr. Demming he 's
sinkinV' answered Sam, giving the sick man a
title he had never accorded him before, " an' he
axes if you 'd be so kin' 's to step in an' speak
to him ; he 's powerful anxious to see you."

Silently Louise arose and followed the mu-
latto. They had carried Demming to the ho-
tel: it was the nearest place, and the Bishop
wished it. His wife had been sent for, and was
with him. Her timid, tear-stained face was the
first object that met Louise's eye. She sat in a
rocking-chair close to the bed, and, by sheer
force of habit, was unconsciously rocking to and
fro, while she brushed the tears from her eyes.
Demming's white face and tangle of iron-gray
hair lay on the pillow near her.

He smiled feebly, seeing Louise. She did
not know anything better to do than to take
his hand, the tears brightening her soft eyes.
" Laws," said Demming, " don' do thet. I ain't
wuth it. Look a yere, I got sun'thin' ter say
ter you. An' you must n't min', 'cause I mean
well. You know 'bout — yes'day mahnin'.
Mabbe you done what you done not knowin'
yo' own min', — laws, thet 's jes girls, — an' I
wants you ter know jes what kin' o' feller he is.
You know he saved yo' pa, but you don' know,
mabbe, thet he did n't know 't was the Bishop
till he'd jump down in thet thar flamin' pit o'

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 93

hell, as 't were, an' fished him out. He done it
jes 'cause he'd thet pluck in him, an' — don'
you go fer ter chippin' in, Gunnel. I 'm a dyin'
man, an' don' you forget it ! Thar he is, miss,
hidin' like behin' the bed."

Louise during this speech had grown red to
the roots of her hair. She looked up into Tal-
boys' face. He had stepped forward. His
usual composure had quite left him, so that he
made a pitiful picture of embarrassment, not
helped by crumpled linen and a borrowed coat
a world too large for him. " It 's just a whim
of his," he whispered hurriedly ; " he wanted
me to stay. I did n't know — I did n't under-
stand ! For God's sake, don't suppose I meant
to take such an advantage of the situation ! I
am going directly. I shall leave Aiken to-
night."

It was only the strain on her nerves, but
Louise felt the oddest desire to laugh. The
elegant Martin cut such a very droll figure as a
hero. Then her eye fell on Demming's eager
face, and a sudden revulsion of feeling, a sud-
den keen realization of the tragedy that Martin
had averted brought the tears back to her eyes.
Her beautiful head dropped. " Why do you
go — now ? " said she.

" Hev you uns made it up, yet ? " murmured
Demming's faint voice.

94 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

"Yes," Talboys answered, "I think we have,
and — I thank you, De naming." The vaga-
bond waved his hand with a feeble assump-
tion of his familiar gesture. " Yo' a square
man. Gunnel. I alius set a heap by you, though
I did n't let on. An' she 's a right peart young
lady. I'm glad yo' gwine ter be so happy.
Laws, I kind o' wish I wuz to see it, even on a
wooden leg " — The woman at his side began
to sob. " Thar, thar, Alwynda, don' take on
so ; cyan't be helped. You mus' 'scuse her,
gen'lemen ; she so petted on me she jes cyan't
hole in ! "

" Demming," said the Bishop, " my poor
friend, the time is short ; is there anything you
want me to do ? " Demming's dull eyes spar-
kled with a glimmer of the old humor.

" Well, Bishop, ef you don' min', I 'd like
you ter conduc' the fun'al services. Reckon
they '11 be a genuwine co'pse this yere time, fo'
suah. An', Bishop, you '11 kind o' look ayfter
Alwynda ; see she gets her coffee an' terbacco
all right. An' I wants ter 'sure you all again
thet them thar chickens wuz the fust an' ony
thing I evah laid ban's on t' want mine. Thet 's
the solemn truf ; ain't it, Alwynda ? "

The poor woman could only rock herself in
the chair, and sob, " Yes, 't is. An' he 's been
a good husband to me. I 've alius bed the bes*

THE BISHOP'S VAGABOND. 95

uv everything! Oh, Lordy, 'pears 's like I
cyan't bear it, nohow ! "

Louise put her hand gently on the thin
shoulder, saying, " I will see that she never
wants anything we can give, Demming; and
we will try to comfort her."

The cracker looked wistfully from her fresh,
young face to the worn face below. " She wuz 's
peart an' purty 's you, miss, w'en I fust struck
up with 'er," said he slowly. " Our little gal
wuz her very image. Alwynda," in a singu-
larly soft, almost diffident tone, " don' take on
so ; mabbe I 'm gwine fer ter see 'er again.
'T won't do no harm ter think so, onyhow," he
added, with a glance at Talboys, as though sure
there of comprehension.

Then the Bishop spoke, solemnly, though
with sympathy, urging the dying man, whose
worldly affairs were settled, to repent of his sins
and prepare for eternity. *' Shall I pray for
you, Demming ? " he said in conclusion.

" Jes as you please. Bishop," answered Dem-
ming, and he tried to wave his hand. " I ain't
noways partickler. I reckon God a'mighty
knows I 'd be th' same ole Demming ef I could
get up, an' I don' mean ter make no purtenses.
But mabbe it'll cheer up th' ole 'ooman a bit.
So you begin, an' I '11 bring in an Amen when-
ever it 's wanted ! "

96 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

So speaking, Demming closed his eyes wear-
ily, and the Bishop knelt by the bedside. Tal-
boys and Louise left them, thus. After a while,
the wife stretched forth her toil-worn hand and
took her husband's. She thought she was
aware of a weak pressure. But when the
prayer ended there came no Amen. Demming
was gone where prayer may only faintly follow ;
nor could the Bishop ever decide how far his
vagabond had joined in his petitions. Such
doubts, however, did not prevent his cherishing
an assured hope that the man who died for him
was safe, forever. The Bishop's theology, like
that of most of us, yielded, sometimes, to the
demands of the occasion.

MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR.

" What do they want ? " said Mr. Finlay.
A sunbeam, reflected from the burnished silver
of the urn, flicked athwart his face, to empha-
size his smile. Mr. Finlay smiled often, for he
was not only a good-tempered man, but a man
keenly susceptible to humorous impressions.
He was a type of domestic happiness this morn-
ing, seated in that family temple, the dining-
room, his two handsome boys on his knees and
the breakfast-table before him. It was a table
glittering with silver and cut-glass, and it wore
that air of elegant antiquity which pertained
to all Mrs. Finlay's house-furnishing, being
further adorned with the shell-like blue china
brought from over the seas by Mrs. Finlay's
great-uncle, old Captain Crowninshield. The
room was ample and lofty, fitted up in oak,
which had gleams of red and gold in the sunken
carvings, to match the red and gold stamped
leather on the walls. There were no plaques,
no pictures, unless that were a picture revealed
by the wide glass doors, — a glimpse of tropical
foliage and falling water and the white Diana

98 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

lifting her lovely arms above the green. Only
a glimpse it was ; but it supplied an effect of
repose and mystery that the sunshiny room
must have lacked else, and added a light touch
to the half foreign picturesqueness everywhere,
the rows of Venetian glass on the sideboard,
the Persian rug on the floor, the fire-place, with
its quaint Flemish tiles, the dim and heavy
folds of old Italian tapestry draping the win-
dows. Framed by these folds were two more
pictures : on one side, an undulating sweep of
hills in the fresh beauty of June, brightly
painted wooden houses showing through the
trees ; on the other, a long street, ending in a
huddle of factory chimneys and the Mississippi
quivering and glittering below. Mrs. Finlay
was gazing absently at the river. Her smooth,
low brow was darkened by a rare cloud.

" Want? " she repeated. " Oh, everything;
a museum in a country town is such an elastic
affair. Mrs. Cody says they don't want to con-
fine it to pictures. They were all here, the
entire committee, Mrs. Cody, Mrs. Hubbard,
and Miss Durham."

"Violet?" said Mr. Finlay, looking inter-
ested. " I wish I had seen her ; it is an age
since I have seen Violet."

"She was looking extremely pretty," said
Mrs. Finlay, who had been told long ago that

o

MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 99

her husband had once wanted to marry Violet
Durham. " She picked out most of my Meissen
plates ; she knew the King's Period at a glance.
And they want my old Flemish lace and most
of the pictures, and the old sword and the
screens, and — oh, yes, they want the chair ! "

*' Well, you will let them have the things,
won't you?"

" Everything but the chair. There is a limit,
Tom."

" Why not the chair ? They won't hurt it ;
and here 's a chance for you to educate the
WrenJiam taste."

Mrs. Finlay shrugged her pretty shoulders,
and said that she had no such ambition.

" Milly," said Tom Finlay, looking at his
wife over his son's curly head, " don't you think
you are just the least bit hard on Wrenham ? "

" On the contrary," she answered coldly, "it
is they who are hard on me. They quite dis-
approve of me, Tom. I have wine at dinner,
with my two boys growing up ; I have a butler
and a coachman ; hence I am a snob and ape
the English. Don't you remember, Tom, how
the boys used to shout after poor John Rogers,
whenever he drove out, ' Hi, where 's the cir-
cus ? ' I shall be contented if the museum cul-
tivates the Wrenham taste up to the point of
tolerating my liveries."

100 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" I don't think it 's the liveries that makes
the trouble, Milly," said Mr. Finlay, gravely ;
*' it 's a notion they have here that you look
down on them as uncouth and provincial. Per-
haps we are, but we don't like to be despised
for it, all the same. I 'm not complaining, you
know. I realize that it is a bore for you to
have to live in Wrenham ; but it would really
be so much less of a bore if you could like the
people, and there is a great deal in them to like
when you get at them."

" Probably I have never got at them," said
Mrs. Finlay.

Then she was silent. The Finlays were
rich enough to have made a figure in New York
or Boston, and it was the skeleton in Emily
FinMy's closet that she must live in Wrenham,
a stupid, censorious, provincial town, where one
could n't even get ice-cream in bricks.

Too well bred to exhibit the skeleton, possi-
bly she did not lock it up securely, since the
Wrenham people knew quite well that she
never stayed a day longer there than she could
help. On their side, they repaid this passive
and unexpressed dislike with indignant criti-
cism. They mimicked her accent, ridiculed her
hospitality, mocked at her housekeeping.

It was a pity, too, for Mrs. Finlay w^as a
charming woman. She had vivacity as well as

MRS. FINLATS ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 101

repose, and such exquisite taste in dress that
she passed for a beauty ; although, to be frank,
she was simply a graceful creature with a Greek
forehead, most beautiful brown eyes, and a del-
icate mouth a trifle too large for her face.

But grace and charm, both, were wasted on
Wrenham. Indeed, that the criticism was not
more bluntly expressed she owed to her hus-
band. Tom Finlay — so every one called him
— was the most popular man in all the country
round about ; he was liked by the towns-people
and the farmers, by the workmen in his coal
mines and the clerks in his railroad office ; by
women and children ; for that matter, by the
very dogs on the street and the horses in his
stable. Nor was such universal affection
strange. Tom Finlay was a man at once up-
right and genial, and he had a singularly gentle
and modest manner. He was the descendant
of an ancient Scotch family, whose two centuries
in America had obliterated their national char-
acteristics. The two centuries had been spent
in Philadelphia ; but Tom's father had gone
to Illinois for his health, and there, in Wren-
ham, Tom was born. Inheriting a fortune, he
had been rather elaborately educated ; but Har-
vard and Heidelberg could not quite brush
away the flavor of the prairies ; to the end he
was a Westerner ; he had a dash of the West-

102 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

ern unconventionality and all the Western en-
ergy ; and there was in him a peculiarly West-
ern blending of sympathy and shrewdness.
Nothing human was foreign to him, yet he
rarely threw away either his money or his emo-
tions. His attachment to the soil certainly was
not Western ; it must have come to him from
his Scotch ancestors. The original family of
Finlays had it also. They abode in Philadel-
phia, still, cherishing the family traditions and
the old portraits by Peale and Copley. They
mourned over Tom, " who was not like the Fin-
lays." His choice of a wife, they felt, was a
direct interposition of Providence. " A Massa-
chusetts Endicott ! '' they said under their
breath, and they welcomed Emily with open
arms. She justified their confidence, taking
the liveliest interest in Tom's ancestors and
reverently admiring the family relics. As for
Tom, he laughed openly at the illustrious house
of Finlay. The glories of a race, tracing the
roots of its ancestral tree down to the stone cof-
fins of the early Scottish kings, were only a
joke to this irreverent descendant. " It was
his horrid Western humor," his wife supposed.
She dreaded Tom's humor, which found its food
everywhere, quiet as it was. Though he was
the most generous and tolerant of husbands,
she sometimes had the strangest, chilliest sensa-

MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 103

tion of serving as the butt of bis silent and
secret wit. He never ridiculed ber ; be was
only amused by ber, wbicb was worse. Her
fears did ber busband injustice, but tbey were
so undemonstrative that be never bad a cbance
to dispel them. All the same they did their
work well. Tbey cut off the natural simple
confidences between husband and wife. They
made Emily shy of any vivid expression of feel-
ing. Tbey repressed the very evidences of ber
affection for Tom, while they made it out of
the question for ber to confess those vague and
passing doubts which trouble the serenest love
when the lover is a woman. Besides, she was
a New England woman, trained to exaggerate
ber conscience and underrate ber emotions.
Therefore, she tried on honest, unworldly Tom
tactics which bad been better suited to a worn-
out man of pleasure. She gave him a beautiful
and harmonious home; she won admiration
everywhere — except in Wrenham ; she never
let him see ber out of temper ; in short, she
made him delightfully comfortable. When
they were away from Wrenham, — and they
were away from Wrenham a great deal, — Tom
was told on all sides bow fortunate be was in
bis wife. He agreed heartily ; yet, in truth,
he was not more satisfied with bis married hap-
piness than was she. He would have liked

104 KNITTERS IN TEE SUN.

Emily to be more expansive; he longed for
those trivial confidences which she withheld as
bores ; and, on many accounts, it would have
gratified him to have had his wife fond of his
native town. But, being so tolerant, he rea-
soned that he could not expect everything from
one woman. " Milly is the most charming and
sweetest-tempered woman in the world, and the
best mother," thought Tom, stroking a rather
melancholy smile with his big hand ; " and
I 'm much too ugly and tame for a beautiful
woman to fall desperately in love with me.
Very likely I 'm a trifle provincial in the bar-
gain. Wrenham and I suit each other. It
is n't odd we don't just suit her." Therefore,
he said nothing of his feelings. To-day, for the
first time in years, he had spoken. Now, he
was blaming himself for his speech. What was
the use ? He had merely bothered Milly.
Mrs. Finlay, on her part, was disgusted with
herself because she had shown a tinge of irri-
tability.

"You see, Tom," she said after a pause,
" that chair is my pet weakness."

" Well, I would n't send it then," answered
Tom, easily.

Mrs. Finlay considered.

Now, the chair was the delight of her eyes
— the darling of her pride ; a genuine Eliza-

o

MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 105

betlian chair of age-blackened oak, given her
by the chief of the Fin lay clan, who still main-
tained a faded magnificence in the Highlands.
Originally it was an English chair, coming
north as part of the bridal portion of the Eng-
lish wife of one of the Finlays ;* and tradition
declared that the hapless Queen of Scots, while
visiting her loyal follower, the then Sir Fergus,
had made the chair her throne. The Finlay
arms were carved on the back, and the date, —
a sight to awe caviling skeptics. Very dear to
Mrs. Finlay was the chair ; dearer than her
pictures or her rare old engravings or her fra-
gile treasures from Venice, or even the wonder-
ful vase which was possibly " Henri Deux " ;
dearer by far than her own family heir-looms
of sword and clock and china. There was
another sword, a Scottish claymore, as well as
a battered buckler, further gifts of Sir Fergus ;
but a haze hung over their history, and Mrs.
Finlay, alluding to them, simply gave them
the general title of honor, " In the family."
Of course, there could be no comparison of
such as these with the chair. This was why
Mrs. Finlay considered. The children thought
it time to join in the conversation. Fergus,
the elder, who was nine, wanted to know what
kind of a show an art museum was ; " did it
have an elephant ? "

106 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" They only have pictures and things," said
his mother ; " you may go, if we are here."

"I'd rather go to Barnum's," said Fergus,
thoughtfully. "Say, mamma, let's stay and
go to Barnum's ; you take me. Lots of boys'
mammas take them to the circus ! "

" Francis will take you, brother, and you
may ask that boy you like so much — Jimmy
Hubbard, is n't it ? "

" I 'm 'fraid he would n't want to go with me,
he's so big," Fergus replied, despondently.
Jimmy Hubbard was his boy hero, but he was
fifteen, and Fergus worshiped him from afar.
"Maybe, though," he continued, brightening,
" he might if I had on long pants ; I would n't
look so little then ; and, mamma, honesty there
ain't another boy in Wrenham, big as me,
wears short pants ! "

"Do say trousers, Fergus. Anyhow, we
shan't be in Wrenham much more than a
week. You shall see Jumbo, East " —

" Oh, mamma ! " said Fergus, reproachfully ;
and, " Oh, mamma ! " echoed little four-year-
old Tom.

" My very children desert me and like the
place," thought Mrs. Finlay.

" Better stay till this fandango is over, don't
you think, Milly ? " said Tom ; " it looks more
neighborly."

o

MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 107

" Very well, dear," said Emily, with a smile
which, under the circumstances, was heroic.
She turned the talk lightly to something else ;
but when Tom and the children were gone,
and she was alone in the pretty dining-room,
she sighed.

Tom Finlay came home to luncheon that
day, and ran in upon the " soliciting committee "
of the Wrenham Art Museum. They were
standing in the hall, around the chair, all three,
Mrs. Hubbard, Mrs. Cody, and Violet Durham.
Mrs. Hubbard was the president of the library,
for the benefit of which the museum was to be.
She was a tall woman, with winning manners,
and a handsome, care-worn face. Her husband
was a district judge. His salary was small,
and they had six children ; but Mrs. Hubbard
was always pressed to serve on church commit-
tees and to aid charitable undertakings, because
she had so much tact and was " such a worker."
Mrs. Cody, the second member, had a more
brilliant worldly lot, being the wife of a rich
grocer. She was large, florid, and sprightly,
and her gleaming black satin gown rattled
and sparkled with jet pendants. Violet Dur-
ham, the remaining member, leaned over the
high chair-back, her pretty face upraised. The
wind had roughened her smooth, black braids ;
one loosened lock curled against her white

108 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

neck ; under the shadow of her hat, her great,
dark eyes were shining. She wore a simple
cambric gown, which had brown figures on a
yellowish background, and there were bows of
brown ribbon about it, with long ends to flut-
ter when she moved ; and a careless bunch of
Jacqueminot roses was stuck in her belt. In
the light poise of her figure, in the expression
of her face, even in the arrangement of her
daintily fresh dress, there was an air of cheer-
ful animation ; she made one think of prairie
flowers when the breeze shakes the dew from
them. Tom Finlay gave her a glance of ad-
miration and a half wistful smile. He had
known Violet all his life. Her only brother,
who died at college, had been his most intimate
friend ; Mrs. Durham used to call Tom " her
other boy " ; he was always at their house.
Naturally, he fell in love with Violet. It was
a boyish passion, never avowed and soon cured ;
and he married Emily Finlay with no disturb-
ing memories. He did more ; he gave substan-
tial aid to the young lawyer whom Violet had
preferred to him. She was on the eve of marry-
in s: this man when both her father and he were
killed in a railway accident. Colonel Durham
left a large property in such a state of confusion
that it was feared there would be nothing left
for Violet and her mother. Then Tom Finlay

o

MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 109

came forward; his advice and energy, and the
loan he insisted upon making them, rescued a
modest independence from the tangle. Mrs.
Durham and Violet went abroad, and were
gone five years. Tom wanted his wife to take
these good friends of his to her heart ; there-
fore, praising himself for Machiavelian wile, he
was very reticent about thera, and said not a
word of his little romance. So the story came
to Mrs. Finlay in bits, to be pieced together by
her fancy. She did not take the Durhams to
her heart. She was perfectly courteous ; she
asked them to the house whenever Tom sug-
gested ; but the pleasant, informal intercourse
that he had planned never came. He did
not complain ; indeed, what cause for com-
plaint had he ? Mrs. Finlay did all he asked ;
but there was a sore spot in his regret. To-
day, as he greeted Violet, he was thinking how
seldom he saw the Durhams in his home, and
how welcome he had always been made to
theirs. A hundred trivial, touching recollec-
tions of his childhood helped to bring that
wistful curve to his lips. Instantly it was
gone, and he was greeting the ladies with most
commonplace politeness ; but his wife had seen
it before it went.

The moment the salutations were over, Mrs.
Cody, who had been speaking, continued : —

110 KNITTERS IN TEE SUN.

" Yes, indeed, I know your feeling, Mrs.
Finlay. When they asked me for my Jackson
chair, — it was given to Mr. Cody by the Gen-
eral himself, you know, and he said it was a
hundred years old, — well, when they asked
for that, it didn't seem as though I could let it
go. But we're so interested in the library,
and of course it 's different with you ; you can't
be expected, as I told the ladies, to feel an
interest. It ain't as though you belonged to
the town."

" I hope you don't think of us as not belong-
ing to Wrenham," said Tom ; " I 'm a regular
Wrenham boy."

Mrs. Cody waved her plump hand. " Oh,
you, of course, Mr. Finlay; but gentlemen
are different ; you have your business here.
But we see so little of Mrs. Finlay, we feel she
is quite a stranger."

Mrs. Cody had a marvelous faculty for say-
ing stinging things. Charitable people held
that she was simjDly heedless ; the less chari-
table said her shafts were too well aimed for
shots in the air. Mrs. Hubbard hurried into
the conversation.

"Mrs. Finlay always shows she is not a
stranger by her kindness," she said; "she has
let us have such a quantity of beautiful things."

" That 's right," said Tom, cordially ; " can't
you think of something else ? "

MRS. FINLATS ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. Ill

" Only the chair," Mrs. Cody replied, sol-
emnly.

Mrs. Finlay looked from the speaker to her
husband.

" If you really think the chair will help the
museum, you are quite welcome to it," she
said.

The visitors broke into a confusion of thanks.

" It is very kind of you, Mrs. Finlay," cried
Violet Durham. " I will look after the chair,
myself."

" We will all look after it," said Mrs. Cody.
" And now, Mrs. Finlay, you encourage us to
ask one favor more : won't you come on to our
general committee ? "

Again Emily glanced at her husband ; there
was a familiar twinkle in his eye.

" I fear I shan't be any help to you," she an-
swered, gravely, ''but — yes, certainly, if you
wish it."

It must be confessed that, though the com-
mittee professed unbounded gratitude and sat-
isfaction over this last boon, they looked rather
blank ; Mrs. Finlay guessed that they had ex-
pected a refusal. She urged them to stay to
lancheon, a courtesy which had its natural ef-
fect, the hastening of their departure.

After they were gone, Tom Finlay said;
" You were very good-natured, Milly."

112 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

"It was not good - nature, Tom," she an-
swered ; " it was — well, I am not sure I know
what it was myself."

She walked up-stairs, leaving him whistling
softly.

• •••••••••

The Wrenham Art Museum opened its doors
two weeks later. For days the workers had
toiled over a chaos of old books, pictures, and
bric-a-brac. The result exceeded their hopes.
But even in riches there is embarrassment.
The usual procession of petty trials had filed
through the days. A sad amount of ill-feeling
was caused by a few slips of memory, some la-
dies not being asked to help at all, and others
being asked too late. Careless remarks about
the objects of art had wounded sensitive souls.
Disputes had arisen in the committees. There
was the quarrel about the building, happily set-
tled at last by Mr. Cody's generous offer of his
late grocery shop, free of rent. To be sure,
the vigilant nose could still sniff odors of salt
fish, kerosene oil, and molasses, despite the la-
bors of the scrub-women ; and it never had
been considered a well-lighted shop. But a
gift horse should not be looked in the mouth ;
it was a large, convenient, inexpensive museum
hall, and the committee accepted it gratefully,
as was their duty.

o

MRS. FINLATS ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 113

The selection of a janitor was not so easily-
made. Mrs. Cody proposed a retainer of her
own, an old fellow named Judson, who picked
• up a precarious livelihood, mowing lawns, run-
ning of errands, and working out poll-taxes,
while his wife made up the deficiencies in the
family income by taking in washing. Judson
had lately joined a temperance society, but a
particularly unsavory past marred his reputa-
tion.

This was Miss Durham's objection to him.

"He may get drunk and burn us all up,"
said she ; " besides, he is a weak old man, and
couldn't fight a burglar ! "

" He belongs to the Sons of Temperance,"
Mrs. Cody returned stiffly ; " he don't drink a
drop, and he will have a pistol."

A mild little woman here said that she
guessed he did need the place ; his wife had
been sick most of the winter.

" For my part," said Mrs. Cody warmly, " /
think that when anybody repents and is strug-
gling to do better, they ought to be encouraged
and not trampled on ! "

" That 's so," another member of the com-
mittee agreed. " Besides, we want to have
Mrs. Judson to clean, and it will be much more
convenient. She can come in the mornings,
too, and sweep and dust. She oughtn't to

114 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

charge much, if we have him. We can make
all the cleaning part of his business; then
she '11 come and do it."

In vain Violet pleaded the danger of Jud- .
son's relapsing into his old habits ; mercy and
thrift combined carried the day ; Mrs. Finlay
was the single member voting with her.

Mrs. Finlay came to most of the meetings.
She said little and noticed much. Mrs. Hub-
bard, " for her sins," Violet said, was the chief
ruler of the artistic council. Mrs. Finlay used
to marvel at her unfailing patience. She
thought her own politeness, well trained as it
was, would have trembled beneath the awful
responsibilities of china, the charges of express
companies, the delays of printers, the assaults
of irate owners of pictures which were not hung
to their taste, and of distracted hanging com-
mittees and amateur artists with pictures of
their own to show, who had the " artistic tem-
perament " to such a degree that they could
scarcely be trusted in the same room together.
But Mrs. Hubbard never winced, she only
looked rather more tired at times. Her son
and Violet were her great helpers, Jimmy
Hubbard was young Fergus Finlay 's hero, a
tall lad of fifteen, whose wrists were always
growing out of his jacket sleeves. He was de-
voted to Violet, and Violet was devoted to

MRS. FIN LAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 115

Jimmy's handsome, overworked mother. They
did a little of nearly everything that was to be
done, from scrubbing show-cases to writing ad-
vertisements.

" Only," said Violet, " I trust a confiding
public does n't believe the wild tales owners of
antiquities tell about their things. If this ex-
hibition lasts much longer, I shall lose my soul
— I 've got into such a way of lying ! " Jim-
my's specialty was painting placards. He made
beautiful letters, but his spelling was not be-
yond reproach. He enjoyed the museum im-
mensely. "Such fun!" said Jimmy; "those
people in the picture-room are just going it !
Mrs. Cody had somebody's picture took down
and hers hung in the same place ; said her pic-
ture needed that light and t' other one did n't.
And now the other woman, she 's come back,
and — oh, ain't they having a circus, though !
And up in the room where they have the Jap-
anese things, they 've lost all the labels ; they
tumbled off and got mixed up, and they 're put-
ting 'em back by guess. Folks '11 open their
eyes when they see the catalogue. And doAvn-
stairs in the china-room, somebody 's hooked
their show-case, so the china 's standing round
on the floor ; and they say they can't do noth-
ing till they get another show-case, so they 've
gone off to dinner, and there ain't nobody in
the room 'cept a dog ! "

116 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" A dog ! " cried Mrs. Hubbard, while Mrs.
Finlay turned pale. " I must go this in-
stant " —

" Oh, I coaxed him out," said Jimmy ; " I
thought it didn't look just healthy for the
china. Guess he had n't broke much ; some of
it was broke to start with, was n't it ? "

Poor Mrs. Hubbard hurried away. Violet
laughed.

" I think I must hunt them up a show-case,"
said she. " Take our old books out, Jimmy,
and let us give them that."

'' But you spent all the morning arranging
them," said Mrs. Finlay; "and you brought
the show-case yourself. It is quite too bad ! "

" Oh, it does n't matter," answered Violet,
gayly ; " it 's all for the public good." She
was always cheerful. " I suppose I have no
proper pride," she said once; "nobody wants
me to be chairman of anything ; my valuable
suggestions have been uniformly rejected ; and
still, Jimmy, we are happy ! "

" I wish that Mrs. Cody was n't chairman of
our committee, though," said Jimmy; "she
never does a thing — just sails round and
bosses ! "

"But she ha's been very liberal. Think of
the things she has sent us ; think of the Jack-
son chair ! "

MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 117

"It ain't half as pretty as Mrs. Finlay's,"
said Jimmy, unwitting that Mrs. Finlay stood
behind him ; " and she makes ten times as
much fuss. No Cody in mine, thank you."

Mrs. Finlay smiled as she walked away, feel-
ing more friendly than she would have believed
possible toward Violet and Jimmy. She had
been as good as her word and sent the chair.
Francis, the butler, attended to its safe deliv-
ery. He remained while Violet removed the
wrappings.

" Mrs. Finlay said as how you would look
after it yourself, Miss," he remarked, in a tone
of deep solemnity, adding, as if from the impe-
rious promptings of his own conscience, " She
sets the world by that chair, and I wouldn't
have it hurt for nothing whatsoever ! "

" It shan't be my fault if it gets hurt, Fran-
cis," Violet answered.

On the appointed day the museum was
opened. The Cody chair stood beside Mrs.
Finlay's on a kind of dais of honor, and to
many minds was the nobler chair of the two.
Like the Finlay chair, it was of imposing pro-
portions. Its substance was mahogany, and —
again like the Finlay chair — it had arms. In-
deed, at first view there was a general resem-
blance of form, if not of color, between the two
chairs, although that of Mrs. Finlay was orna-

118 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

men ted with florid carving as behooved an Eliz-
abethan chair, while the lines of the other were
chastely plain.

From the first the exhibition was a triumph.
It went victoriously on to its close. One day,
somewhere near the middle of its career, Violet
Durham walked through it with her mother.
The rooms were almost empty, for the time
was early in the morning. The two women
paused before a screen of Mrs. Finlay's, a mar-
vel of embroidery on dull gold plush.

" Hasn't she ravishing taste?" said Violet;
"all her things are so lovely. Why did fate
direct Mrs. Cody to hang that horror of a crazy-
quilt dh-ectly over it ? Mrs. Finlay will faint
when she sees it ; it will be the last straw. I
wish you could see her in the committees, so
disgusted with our vulgarities, but so invincibly
polite. She never says a word, but anything
more deadly superior than her silence I never
did encounter. I never am with her, anyhow,
that I don't feel myself so hopelessly provincial
that I almost don't want to live."

" You are unjust, Violet," said Mrs. Durham,
a placid gentlewoman, with soft gray hair and
a grave sweet smile ; " Mrs. Finlay is n't a bit
of a snob " —

" Oh, I don't mean she is. What I do think
is that she is rather narrow-minded. She can't

o

MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 119

conceive of people being nice who are n't nice
in just her way, who haven't just such man-
ners, for instance, and just such ways of think-
ing, and have n't been to Europe just so many
times. Tom deserves a woman cut on a larger
pattern. It makes it hard for him."

" He seems perfectly satisfied," said Mrs.
Durham, smiling. And then they passed on.

Now, Mrs. Finlay was behind the screen.
It was purely an accident. She happened to
be standing there looking at some articles on
the wall. She did not think of their discussing
any personal matter, and after they had begun
to speak and she understood, she was too sur-
prised and embarrassed to go forward.

The conversation was a revelation. Her first
emotion was a shock. She felt as though she
had been shown to be brutally rude. True, she
did believe her ways of living and thinking
vastly better than those of a country town ;
but her sense of superiority was so deeply rooted
that it was hardly visible to her own conscious-
ness ; to manifest it to its objects seemed to
her unutterably indelicate. Her cheeks were
burning as she stepped forth from her involun-
tary hiding-place.

Was she narrow-minded, she who prided her-
self upon her cosmopolitan toleration? Had
her distaste for life in Wrenham made it hard

120 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

for Tom ? Did he think her narrow-minded ?
Such thoughts made her miserable for days.
" The worst of it, too," she said to herself, " is
that it is no use my trying to pacify them.
Whatever I do, they are bound to misunder-
stand me ! " Nevertheless, she went again and
still another time to the museum. The chil-
dren went, and Tom and Francis, and John
Rogers (who was very much bored), and Elise,
Mrs. Finlay's maid, and the cook, and the other
maids, and the gardener with all his family.
" I will say she spends her money on us," said
Mrs. Cody.

To the very end the weather was propitious ;
but the day after, the clouds distilled a gentle,
unremitting drizzle. Most of the owners of ar-
ticles sent for them notwithstanding. Francis
and John Rogers appeared at five o'clock, hav-
ing waited until then in the vain hope of sun-
shine. They took the pictures and the china,
but there was not room for the chair. There-
fore they wrapped it in the tarpaulin they had
brought and left it in Violet's charge — Francis
saying, with his air of decent gloom, " Mrs.
Finlay told me to bring the pictures first and
take the chair on another load. I '11 be back
to-night if I can. Are i/ou going to stay here,
may I ask, Miss ? "

" I shall stay until dark, Francis ; but Judson

will be here all night.

j>

MRS. FINLAYS ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 121

Francis turned a gloomy eye upon old Judson,
who was shambling about, getting Mrs. Cody's
property together.

" Thank you, Miss ; but I 'd rather come
back if I can," said he.

" Now, I wonder," said Violet to Jimmy
Hubbard, later, " I wonder what he meant by
that:'

Old Judson had gone up-stairs, the other peo-
ple had gone home, and they were alone in the
room.

" Ask me an easier one," said Jimmy.

" He is sober enough to-night, is n't he ? "
Violet asked, looking up into Jimmy's face with
that anxious reliance on the masculine judgment
in such matters which confirms a boy's opinion
of his sex.

" Oh, straight as a string," said Jimmy, re-
assuringly ; '' but he was on a toot Thursday,
if you want to know. Say, Judson, come down
and light up."

Judson lighted a single burner, and listened
silently to Violet's warnings and injunctions,
scowling to himself. Then Jimmy and she
went home. The last thing they noticed in the
room was a group of the two chairs, standing
on their dais, island-wise, amid a sea of crum-
pled wrapping-paper. Mrs. Cody's chair was
undraped, but Mrs. Finlay's, in its white tar-
paulin, looked like a clumsy ghost.

122 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

By this time the rain had ceased and the
stars were shining. They walked to Mrs. Dur-
ham's house very cheerfully. Jimmy was pre-
vailed upon to enter and be refreshed with tea.
Perhaps an hour had passed before they were
startled by the clangor of bells.

"- Fire ! " cried Violet.

" Hope it ain't ws .' " said Jimmy, with more
good-will than grammar.

The Wrenham fire-bells rang in a startling
but not systematic fashion, as fast as they could
go ; and the fire companies — volunteers, mostly
of tender years — assembled in their respective
engine-houses, and ran about the streets inquir-
ing for the fire until it made enough headway
to be seen. The bells themselves afforded no
clew. Jimmy ran out into the street for infor-
mation, at the same time yelling " Fire ! " at
the top of his voice. " Fire ! fire ! Say, Mis-
ter, where 's the fire ? "

" Cass street," yelled back a running boy ;
" Cody's old grocery store."

" Mercy ! " cried Mrs. Durham from the door-
way, " the museum ! Violet " —

But Violet was gone. With the first word
she had sped swiftly after Jimmy, nor did she
stop until they saw the smoke pouring out of
the museum windows.

*' Mrs. Finlay's chair ! " she gasped; " Jim-
my, we must save it ! '*

o

MRS. FIN LAYS ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 123

" All right," said Jimmy ; " just you wait ! "
He dashed through the crowd that shouted af-
ter him : '' Come back ! " " The door 's locked."
" It 's all afire ! " Unheeding, he unlocked the
door — he had his mother's key with him
— and ran into the smoke. Horrible smoke it
was — dense, blinding, stifling. His eyes were
stung ; his ears stunned ; the murky air seemed
to roar all about him. But he saw the white
tarpaulin through his smoky tears, and stag-
gered up to it. Somebody caught the other
side : they dragged the chair out together — not
a second too soon, for the wainscoting of the
room was blazing. Safe on the sidewalk, he
saw that his unknown helper was Violet, who
said : —

" We 're a couple of fools, but we 've saved
the chair. Now, let us get it out of the way ! "

They carried it across the street just in time
to avoid the charge of a fire company. They
came with a rush and a cheer, and with their
coming the whole street brightened into a kind
of lurid gayety. The flames leaped up in the
museum windows. Up-stairs, where the fire had
started, they were all aglow. In the street, the
boys were shouting, the water splashing, the
firemen swearing, and apparently everybody
ordering somebody else to do something. Violet
scanned the crowd, trying to discover old Jud-

124 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

son ; but she saw no sign of that aged reprobate,
and began to fear he was burning up in the
building. Suddenly, two men laid hands on
the chair. One of them spoke — roughly, but
not unkindly : —

" You '11 have to get outer this, ma'am : they
want to lay the hose here. Here, hurry up !
This way ! "

Resolutely clinging to the chair, Violet and
Jimmy were pushed down the street.

" We '11 have to carry the chair home our-
selves, Jimmy," said Violet ; "there's no use
trying to look for a wagon — good gracious ! "

" What 's the matter ? " cried Jimmy.
" Confound the fools ! "

It was only that some sportive souls among
the firemen had turned the hose on their com-
rades over the street ; Violet and Jimmy, be-
ing in a direct line with the comrades, were
drenched to the skin.

" Nothing but water," said Violet ; " but I
never did fancy shower-baths. Jimmy, the man
was right ; we 'd better get away from here."

Jimmy looked at the chair. " It 's awful
heavy ; let 's leave it in a saloon ; they 're
open."

"Never," said Violet; "it's not going out
of my sight again. Here, boy," addressing a
stout lad in the crowd, " I '11 give you a dollar
if you '11 help us carry this chair home."

MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 125

" All right ! " said the boy.

He grinned at Jimmy, whom he knew, and
took the chair by the arm. They forced their
way to the corner. The boy's stout lungs and
ready profanity cleared a passage, assisted as
they were by his skillful use of the chair cor-
ners as a battering-ram. Violet was a devout
churchwoman, but she did not tell him not to
swear; she had a desperate feeling that any-
thing was allowable, in the present crisis, to
rescue the chair. Torn, dishevelled, dripping
with muddy water, the three — say rather the
four, for does not the chair count as one ? —
emerged from the din into the quiet and starlit
streets where there was no fire. Violet's own
plight was deplorable. Little streams of water
drained from her soaked skirts ; her hat was
crushed into a shapeless bunch, through an un-
intentional collision with a hook-and-ladder com-
pany. She had a great bruise on her cheek
(side lunge of the chair), and a never explained
scratch across her nose. But she was in high
spirits — her wooden ward was safe ! Almost
jubilantly she paid the boy at Mrs. Durham's
gate ; she answered her mother's anxious in-
quiries with a kiss and a laugh.

" I 've been a fireman, mamma ; I 've helped
save portable property. Jimmy, take off the
tarpaulin, please."

126 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Jimmy pulled it off with a flourish ; then he
gave a shout : " Oh, thunder ! "

Violet uttered a deep groan. She leaned
against the side of the house like one about to
faint. Poor Mrs. Durham caught her in her
arms.

" Oh, it 's nothing, mamma," said Violet, in
a hollow voice ; " only, we 've made a mistake,
and saved the wrong chair ! "

I draw a veil over the remainder of the night.

The explanation is simple enough. Old Jud-
son had beguiled the tedium of the night-
watches with whiskey. After he had pretty
well drowned his feeble wits, he took a notion
to inspect the chairs, and put the tarpaulin on
Mrs. Cody's chair. Then he departed to get
more whiskey, leaving bis lighted pipe up-stairs,
among the wrapping-papers. And Mrs. Fin-
lay's idol was ashes !

Mrs. Finlay had a headache the night of the
fire, and slept undisturbed through the fire-bells.
Languid but unsuspecting, she came down to a
late breakfast. Tom and the boys were gone,
but Francis was in waiting, looking absolutely
tragic in his solemnity. Mrs. Finlay took up
the Wrenham paper. Francis, with a plate of
oatmeal in one hand and the cream-jug in the

MRS. FIN LAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 127

other, stood watching her. " Ah ! " cried Mrs.
Finlay. She held the paper higher; Francis
could not see her face. He made a gesture of
despair with the cream- jug.

" Were you at the fire last night, Francis ? "
came from behind the paper.

" Yes, ma'am, I was, ma'am," said Francis,
his pent-up feelings relieving themselves in a
heavy and irrepressible sigh. " It ain't no use,
ma'am ; it 's all gone ! When I got there,
everything was blazing. And they say, ma'am,
the janitor set it afire hisself . He was a-reeling
round there drunk 's a lord — begging your
pardon, ma'am ; and he locked the door, so they
could n't get in ! "

Mrs. Finlay put the paper down. She might
have been a shade paler, but Francis could see
no change in her expression. Yet, behind this
calm mask a sharp struggle was going on. This
stupid and barbarous town, after railing at her
and slandering her for years, had capped its
exasperations by destroying her most precious
possession ! Her nerves tingled with irritation.
But the blood of generations of Puritans did
not flow in Emily Finlay's veins for nothing.
She had as robust a conscience as the best of
them, although it was illumined by most un-
puritanic lights. After all, she reasoned, the
Wrenham people had burned up their own

128 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

treasures as well as hers ; certainly, they had
intended no harm.

" Miss Durham," announced Francis, inter-
rupting the inward colloquy between anger and
justice.

" Show her in here," said Mrs. Finlay. She
remembered that Violet had opposed old Jud-
son's appointment, and greeted her with actual
warmth.

" You see, I know all," she said, touching
the newspaper. " I am so very sorry for you."

Violet looked pale and dejected ; she did not
lift her eyes ; her voice trembled as she an-
swered : —

" But your chair is gone ; I was down there
this morning, and could n't find even a piece of
it. And we persuaded you to send it ! "

" But you could n't know what was to hap-
pen," said Mrs. Finlay, gently ; " it was n't
your fault " —

" Master James Hubbard," said Francis, ap-
pearing again in the door-way. Jimmy had
unceremoniously followed the butler, and was
at his heels. He began a carefully conned
speech in breathless haste. He was sorry to
come so early in the morning ; but he saw
Miss Durham and wanted to come, also " be-
cause," cried Master Jimmy, growing red in the
face and forgetting his speech, " I knew she

MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 129

would n't say anything about what she did, and
it was all old Judson's fault, 'cause he changed
the tarpaulin, and we couldn't see through the
smoke, and we hauled it out, and she got wet
through, and the hose-cart smashed her hat, and
Fritz Miiller and she and me, we carried it to
her house, and then, after all, it was Mrs. Cody's
chair ! "

Mrs. Finlay listened with evident emotion.

"Do you mean you ran into the burning
building for my chair ? " she cried. " Risked
your lives ? "

*' That 's about the size of it," said Jimmy.
Then more in detail he recounted the night's
adventures. When he finished, Mrs. Finlay
turned to Violet.

" How brave you were ! " she exclaimed.

" I promised to take care of the chair," said
Violet, with a little rueful smile, " and you see
I failed, after all."

" What could you have done more ? "

" Well, we might have picked out the right
chair, you know," said Jimmy, impartially ;
" but it was so smoky."

" You took the one with the tarpaulin ; you
could n't know. Believe me, I am most grate-
ful for — why. Miss Durham ! "

For Violet, overcome by the long strain on
her nerves, and the reaction after a night spent

130 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

in picturing her reception, eacli picture por-
traying more humiliating explanations than the
last, had sunk into a chair and turned very
white. Jimmy, in distress, threw the contents
of the cream-jug in her face ; happily the jug
was almost empty, and Mrs. Finlay instantly
repaired damages with a finger-bowl.

"Don't — bother," implored Violet faintly;
" I 'm not going to — do anything. But I was
so sorry, and you are so kind, and it is all so

— different ! "

" We thought you 'd be awful mad," Jimmy
explained, with calm suavity.

"We were unjust to you," said Violet; " I

— I think I have always been unjust to you."

" We have been unjust to each other," an-
swered Mrs. Finlay. " Can't we try all our
acquaintance over again, don't you think ? "

She looked up into Violet's face with a
charming smile, but her eyes were wet ; and
when Violet took the hand that was extended
to her, she could not speak because of the lump
in her throat.

Then Jimmy, who had been absorbed in
meditation, remarked : —

" Well, I guess there won't be any trouble
'bout getting the insurance ; that 's one good
thin or

Violet must either laugh or cry ; it was just

MRS. FINLAY'S ELIZABETHAN CHAIR. 131

as well that she should laugh. Mrs. Finlay
laughed with her. " And then," said Jimmy,
describing the interview to his mother afterward,
" then Mr. Finlay came in, and they wanted us
to sit down and have breakfast ; but of course
I would n't. And, mother, I 'm going there
to luncheon to-morrow. And I don't believe
Mrs. Finlav cared much about the chair, 'cause
she didn't say another word about it."

When they were all gone, Tom Finlay put
his arm around his wife's waist. He was smil-
ing ; but, for once, she found nothing to quar-
rel with in his smile. He only said : —

" Milly, I was in the conservatory, and heard
it all. I am tremendously proud of you."

" Because I was n't cross ? " said Emily,
" But I had no right to be cross."

" Milly, you are a very just woman."

" Don't say that, Tom," cried his wife, with
a quick movement ; " I have been horrid about
Wrenham and about — about Miss Durham.
Tom, I wish you had told me that you asked
her to marry you."

Tom opened his eyes.

" But I never did, Milly. I thought of doing
it once ; but I found out she liked somebody
else better, so I held my tongue. Then I saw
you, and was glad enough I had. Milly, you
weren't " —

" Yes, I was, Tom," murmured Emily, hid-

132 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

ing her head on his shoulder ; " I was just so
stupid."

Tom held her close ; she felt the quickened
beating of his heart, and she said : —

" I shall never be — stupid about Miss Dur-
ham again. She is so nice, and she was so
brave about the chair."

"The poor chair!" said Tom. " Milly, I
am sorry."

Mrs. Finlay pulled her husband's head down
to her own level and kissed his hair.

" If you are sorry, Tom," she whispered,
" then I do not mind."

Nevertheless she is not ungrateful to the
chair's memory. It is perhaps a fanciful no-
tion, but she feels as though the chair died for
her happiness. A water-color sketch of it
hangs in her chamber, and she has, when she
looks at it, an emotion of almost personal grat-
itude. She returned the insurance money
(which duly came to her) to the managers of
the museum, accompanying the money with
a sympathetic note. The note made a favor-
able impression. Wrenham has come to the
conclusion that Mrs. Finlay has her good
points. It only remains to add that Tom Fin-
lay has no cause to complain of his wife's cool-
ness to the Durhams ; and that James Hub-
bard is the proud possessor of a new and most
gorgeous gold watch.

o

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT.

A STUDY.

It was a very modest sign : dingy gilt letters
on a rusty black ground, the entire sign being
not larger in area than two feet by one ; and it
hung, moreover, in a helpless, one-sided, mutely-
appealing fashion by a single corner nail. Why
then did the handsome young man who was
passing give it a vicious twist with his cane, and
send the announcement of the " Office of the
Woman's Suffrage Association " into the mud
of the street ? Being a western street, the mud
was deep. "You be hanged!" muttered the
young man — which, indeed, was just what the
sign needed ; but he did not hang it. He walked
on with a little irritable laugh and turned down
a side street, when, seeing no one near enough
to observe him, he soon allowed the dejection
of his feelings to shape his expression. The
cause of his melancholy mood was that frequent
disturber of a lover's peace, a quarrel with his
mistress. The quarrel was no transient dis-
agreement ; it was a final rupture. Six times
since the morning mail had Harold Durham

134 KNITTERS IN THE SUN

read a certain note which he then received ; now
he was repeating its contents from memory ;
certainly they showed no indecision in the
writer.

I have read your letter carefully. I cannot
say anything but what I have said before so
often you must be tired. I do not blame you,
Harold, that you are not willing to have your
wife feel so differently from you ; but you must
not blame me, either, if I cannot give up my
friends and my convictions for you. A woman
has a sense of honor as well as a man, and I
cannot do it, Harold. But I do not mean to
reproach you. I never had the shadow of a
claim on you, you know. You are quite free.
I have sent you back your letters and your ring.
And please believe that I shall always remain
Your faithful friend,

Lillian S. Maine.

" Then there 's a postscript," continued the
young man, " about hoping she has n't been
abrupt and hoping I will be happy. Happy !
Oh, yes." — Here Harold broke off his reflec-
tions to scowl ferociousl}^ at a small boot-black
and shout, " JVo " ; but before the boy could
turn he stopped him. " Yes, I do, too ; only be
quick about it ! " He did not really want his

o

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 135

boots blacked (in truth they had been blacked
ten minutes before this episode, for he was on
his way to a friend's house), but he wanted to
make amends for his harshness to a child, and
some scruples concerning almsgiving forbade
the easier device of a quarter. The act was
trivial, yet a clew to Harold's character. He
had a fervid temperament which his will kept
in rigid retirement, but sometimes it escaped
and hurried him into action, in which cases his
atonement was prone to be as impetuous as his
offense. He looked after the boy when he
dashed away, having finished the merest pre-
tense of blacking. " Poor little rat," he thought ;
" after all, it is harder lines for him than for
me. If a man can only do something perma-
nent for that crowd, he ought not to make a row
if he does n't get all the other things he asks of
life."

Pursuing this elevating strain of meditation,
Harold resolved to waste no more moans over
his ruined hopes, but, dismissing importunate
visions of a noble, candid face and classic head,
with its thick brown braids, to fix his mind upon
the object of his visit to Xerxes ; namely, tene-
ment houses. "Drains," said Harold sternly,
" drains ; they must be settled ! " And as a
judicious initiative to the settlement of drains
he leaned against a fence, and taking Miss

136 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Maine's letter out of his pocket he proceeded to
give it a seventh reading.

It is as good a time as any to draw his picture.
His dress, his tall, athletic figure, his fresh com-
plexion, and his reddish-blonde beard parted in
the centre lent his presence an English air, and
he spoke with an English accent ; he was, how-
ever, an American, the son of a Chicago pork
packer and a Vermont school-teacher. His
father was a jovial, shrewd, strong-willed, faith-
ful man who had inherited a small fortune and
had made it a great one. His mother was a
gentle and graceful woman who had almost for-
gotten that she was not born rich. She had
very soft, winning manners, dressed perfectly,
and had the most harmoniously picturesque
house in Chicago. Mrs. Durham had visited
England three times ; the first time she brought
back her butler, the second time her coachman,
the third time her invaluable housekeeper,
" Becket." " Now I feel that I can live^'' she
said confidentially. Harold was the only child.
It was Mrs. Durham's idea to send him to Eng-
land ; she wanted him to go to Eton first, then
to Oxford ; but I believe they compromised
upon Phillips Academy and Oxford.

Meanwhile Mr. Durham had retired from
business under the influence of a siege of head-
ache and his wife's entreaties, and when Harold

o

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 137

returned home lie found him in a deplorable
state of anxious laziness. Harold most unex-
pectedly came to his relief by plunging into
philanthropy and tenement houses. Mr. Dur-
ham saw that the tenement houses paid, while
Harold, who had studied architecture and sani-
tary science and political economy for no other
purpose, as he told his father, planned the
buildings.

He quite agreed with his father that the
houses must be made to pay a fair interest on
the money.

" We shall do no good with it as a charity,"
he used to say, " but if we can make decent
dwellings for the working classes a paying in-
vestment, we shall have plenty of people follow-
ing our example. And that is what we want.
We want to make these vile fire»traps and fever-
holes unrentable ! "

It will be seen that Harold had the hope as
well as the courage of his opinions. One might
fancy that he would have been tolerably busy,
what with overseeing building, collecting rents,
helping his tenants to help themselves, and
writing explanations of the model tenement
scheme to the newspapers ; but he was a young
man of immense energy, he felt that his country
as well as the poor needed him, and he took an
active interest in politics. He made quite a

138 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

little oration to his father when the subject was
first mentioned between them.

" What do we most need in America ? " he
cried. " That gentlemen should enter politics !
We leave them to the lower classes, and see the
scoundrelly cads who represent us in Congress !
I don't wonder they sneer at us in Europe.
The class who are our natural leaders, who have
the leisure to study the theory of civilization
and find out what government can and what it
can't do, they stay at home for fear of a little
mud throwing ! I tell you it 's a cowardly
shame ! " shouted Harold, growing hot and
bringing his fist down on the table with a bang.

" Well, don't break things, dear, if it is ! "
said his mother, in some alarm. There was a
real Palissy vase on that table and it was tot-
tering frightfully.

Mr. Durham chuckled, but said nothing.
His son's English social tone, his vehemence,
and his astounding political innocence tickled
the elder man's sense of humor. "He 's a good
fellow," thought Mr. Durham, " and he '11 get
over his nonsense in a little while. Give him
his head a while, and let him fool about the
primaries and vote independent tickets till he's
tired. He '11 come out all right, and there ain't
a bit of danger of his being elected to any-
thing ! "

o

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 139

Mrs. Durham took Harold much more se-
riously ; his enthusiasm, to be sure, was rather
alarming in a drawing-room, but that was a
trifling blemish ; she admired the English tone ;
Harold's sentiments, his manners, the very ris-
ing inflections of his voice at the close of his
sentences thrilled her heart with an exquisite
vanity ; she loved her husband, but her son was
her realized ideal. At last, she felt that she
could crush Mrs. Maine. A grandmother who
had been a Van Rensselaer and a sister who
had crossed the Atlantic eighteen times could
never stand up against a son educated at Ox-
ford, with his English training visible in every
bow and audible in every question that he asked.

It was a natural consequence of such a reverie
that Mrs. Durham should take Harold over to
the Maines, that same evening. Harold found
a tall young woman, handsome as Diana, in-
stead of the merry little girl who had skated
and climbed trees with him ten years ago. He
instantly discovered that he had loved her all
his life, and told her so two months later. Lily
Maine had been cruel enough to doubt the du-
ration of his feeling, and had refused to be posi-
tively his promised wife until he had known
her lonsjer: but she had admitted what she
styled a "partiality" for him and had consented
to wear his ring, although she would not let

140 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

him bu}' her one. In short, they finally arrived
at an " understanding " which was to be an
" engagement " at the end of the year. Harold
had never been so happy in his life ; he thought
Lily more charming every day.

He was not alone in this opinion ; few people
knew Miss Maine without feeling the subtle at-
traction of her mingled sincerity and sympathy.
There are many sincere people in the world,
and many sympathetic people ; but the sincere
people are apt to be disagreeable, and the sym-
pathetic people are apt to lie, more or less.
Lily, while she was absolutely truthful, knew
how to be silent, and her interest in others'
goodness or sorrow was too quick to need to be
whipped up by her politeness. As most of us
are either good or unhappy, and some of us are
both, Lily's interest had a wide career before
it — so wide, indeed, that Mrs. Maine shuddered
over her daughter's disregard of the convention-
alities. She used to discuss Lily's " eccentri-
city" with her second daughter, — her husband
was dead, — always ending the recital of her
grievances with the declaration that she could
have borne anything better than "that dreadful
women's rights crowd ! "

Now I trust the reader perceives why Harold
flung the sign of the Woman's Suffrage Associa-
tion into the mire ; "the cause " had torn Lily

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 141

from him. He was, on the whole, hi spite of
his impetuous nature, a very sweet-tempered fel-
low ; but he had a touch of his father's dogged-
ness, and he cherished his few prejudices. The
son of his mother could hardly help having an
intense dislike to anything harsh or coarse in a
woman ; by an easy transition his dislike was
transferred to a movement which seemed to him
an effort to make all women harsh and coarse.
I fear a visit which he made the previous year
(I am writing of 1879) to Washington, and the
glimpse he there had of the workings of the
cause, reinforced his prejudices. There was
the usual delegation of ladies in the city, to
present the claims of women to the ballot be-
fore Congress. Harold attended one of their
meetings. Several ladies were speaking when
he entered, and because of this circumstance
he could hear very little. Soon one enterprising
speaker mounted a chair, a bolder spirit climbed
upon the table, and the climax was reached
when a strangely attired being — Harold sup-
posed she was a woman — put a chair upon the
table, clambered into the chair, and screamed
her views above the uproar. Harold shrugged
his shoulders and went away.

He did not know of Lily's opinions until
some two months after he had asked her to be
his wife. He never suspected that a girl with

142 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

so much hair could be a defender of the rights
of woman, and his first intimation of such a hor-
rible anomaly was the sight of her name in the
"Times" as secretary of the Chicago branch.
There is no necessity of detailing the particu-
lars of their quarrel — for quarrel it became at
last. Harold felt that Lily would have given
up a whim for his sake had she loved him
deeply ; Lily felt that she could never again
respect herself if she were to give up her prin-
ciples to secure her happiness ; between the
feelings of both they soon came to bitter words.

" Lily, if I had heard j^ou were a Roman
Catholic I could n't have been more shocked,"
cried Harold, pacing the room. " It is n't so
much the object as the people, such a horribly
ill-bred crowd ! All the crack-brained women
I know are shrieking for the suffrage."

" They are queer, some of them," admitted
Lily, half laughing and half sighing, " but you
know, Harold, that in all reforms odd people
come at first. You should have heard father
tell of the extraordinary creatures who used to
flock to the early anti-slavery gatherings. We
used to entertain the brethren — such looking
people as they were sometimes ! And they
never could eat things like other people ! "

" I presume we shall have to entertain quite
as interesting specimens," retorted Harold with

o

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 143

a sneer; but all the time his heart had softened
over the " we," and he was sorely tempted to
surrender on the spot.

Howeyer, being always on guard against his
impulses, he resisted temptation and took a
very dignified leave. It was the day of his de-
parture for Xerxes. Some tenement houses in
that thriving town had lately become Mr. Dur-
ham's property, and Harold was going there to
superintend their transformation into the model
tenements of his dreams. He told Lily that
he would call on his way to the depot to say
good-by. Neither Lily nor he had any reason
to suspect that Dr, Jerusha Dale would call
also ; nevertheless he found her overshoes re-
posing on the tiles of the vestibule. Even we
who know and respect Dr. Dale feel that she
has not a prepossessing appearance. She is a
tall lady, very thin but prodigiously muscular ;
(there is a legend current among her friends
that she once knocked a rude medical student
down, and it is certain that she did collar a
drunken man who was beating his wife ;) her
dress never shows any concession to the fashion
of the day, her voice is loud and her movements
ungraceful ; she wears her black hair short ;
and there is, to be frank, a kind of griraness
about her whole aspect. Yet she is a woman
of undoubted talent, who half starved herself

144 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

to learn her profession, and now is continually
spending her knowledge upon miserable men
and women who cannot pay her fees ; she is
said to be marvelously gentle in a sick room,
and her loud voice itself was acquired in duti-
fully shouting at her deaf mother, whom she
keeps in great comfort. Harold unfortunately
knew nothing of her amiable traits. He shud-
dered when he saw her long form gradually
emerge from a Queen Anne chair. *' What an
awful woman ! " he thought, as he bowed. She,
kind soul, who really loved Lily, thought he
had a good face ; and suspecting him to be
Lily's lover almost immediately took her leave,
although she had not been in the house ten
minutes, and had come six miles through the
mud and rain solely to make this one call.
Harold had not the grace to recognize her con-
sideration. He was furious when he heard her
kiss Lily in the hall ; and Lily on her return
found him standing, hat in hand, by the door.

No, he said, with an air of distant politeness,
he would not take off his overcoat ; he had only
come to say good-by. He was glad he was
leaving her in such good hands ; he hoped she
would have a pleasant time during his absence ;
doubtless he should hear of her through the
newspapers ; some speech —

"Oh, dear, no," said Lily, trying to laugh.

o

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 145

"I am not gifted in that way. I never could
write an essay when I was in school, and I
should break down if I tried to read it, any-
how. It is in the drudgery of committees that
I shine."

" I shall wish you much success in commit-
tees, then," said Harold. " Good-by." He lifted
her hand coldly to his lips, and he did not see
that there were tears in her eyes.

The next day he wrote her a long letter from
Xerxes. He begged her to give up such prin-
ciples and friends ; he made the most moving
plea in his power, and wrote six pages about
his love for her. Lily cried over the letter all
night, and answered by an appeal to his justice.
He wrote her (by the next mail) that she did
not seem to consider that it was a matter of
principle with him, and that he certainly never
could bring himself to tolerate Dr. Jerusha
Dale as one of his wife's friends. His answer
was the letter \vhich he held in his hand.

He had finished reading it now, and was list-
lessly looking about him. This was his first
walk in that part of Xerxes. He did not ad-
mire the town. The slightly built houses, the
soft coal dinginess everywhere, and the abound-
ing mud jarred on an eye accustomed to the
picturesque tidiness of English country towns.
Harold never took a walk that he did not stum-

146 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

ble over some broken board in the wooden side-
walks, or have a loose board fly up in his face
as he trod upon it, or sink up to his ankles in
the black slime of a crossing. The number of
unprotected cows, geese, and pigs which he met
also amazed him ; and he found stagnant pools
of water in ravines close to beautifully kept
lawns and handsome houses.

" Most extraordinary town ! " said Harold.
Montgomery Street below the railroad (w^hich
runs through the busiest part of the town, at
the base of the hills — another astonishing cir-
cumstance to Harold) is not a pretty street ;
and St. Patrick's Church, against whose fence
he was leaning, is as severely ugly as the stern-
est Puritan could desire, although the cross
which surmounts its unadorned stone walls and
wooden roof is the symbol of the most ancient
Christian faith. On one side of the church is
the parochial school, a row of brick buildings
with battered wooden doors and worn wooden
steps. Nearer the street there is the priest's
house, a small two-story brick edifice, and in
front of the house is a garden. The day on
which Harold first saw it was in April, and it
was ablaze with tulips.

" Pretty fine display, ain't it ? " said a mau,
coming up to Harold. He wore a working-
man's dress with a carpenter's rule sticking out

o

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 147

of liis coat pocket, and he rested two patched
elbows on the fence rail as he spoke.

" Yes, it is, my man," said Harold ; *' whose
garden is it ? "

" Mister Quinnailon's, the priest here ; that 's
him now ! "

Harold looked rather curiously at the priest,
a stout old man in a threadbare black cassock,
whose strongly marked, dark face showed his
foreign birth ; it would have been a plain face
but for the bright eyes and benevolent smile.
" How sly he looks ! " thought Harold, whose
English education had intensified the average
good Protestant's distrust of the Church of
Rome. »

" Good morning," said Father Quinnailon ;
" how is your vife zis morning ? "

" She 's 'bout the same," said the man.

The priest was picking tulips ; he handed
them over the fence to the man.

" Shall you give zem to her, please," he said,
" and tell her zat she has my prayers."

"Much obliged. Mister Quinnailon," said
the man, taking the flowers. It seemed to
Harold that he would have said more had he
found any words to his mind, but he merely
gave a short nod and walked down the street.

The priest, turning to Harold, asked him if
he cared to see the garden. " I have seen you
standing here for a long time," he said.

148 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Harold blushed and said that he was inter-
ested in tulips.

" And you, zen, know someting of ze tulip
culture, perhaps?" said Father Quinnailon,
with sparkling eyes. " I do not often have such
a pleasure to meet one zat cares for zat. Vill
you valk in, my dear sir ? "

Harold, half amused at his own complaisance,
followed the priest about the garden and talked
for ten minutes of tulips and Dutch culture.
Then he spoke of the man who had just left
them, and asked the priest if he was a good
workman.

Father Quinnailon shook his head. " Zat I
do not know. You see, my dear sir, I . have
know him but a small time. It vas zis vay. I
go to veesit one of my people in a poor house
on Tyler Street " —

"One of my father's houses, probably," in-
terrupted Durham. " I am come to repair
them."

" Zat is good news," said Father Quinnai-
lon, bowing. " Eh veil, it vas zere I see ]\Irs.
Higgins. Mrs. Barnes had ze room across her,
and ven I vas to leave I see a leetle girl brush-
ing vith a broom — so leetle a maiden vith so
great a broom ! — and I say, ' My child, vat
make you vith ze broom ? ' Vile I talk, I hear
her mother call, and I come in to find her sick,

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 149

in great distress, her husband gone to look for
vork, no one to help her but ze leetle maid.
So I sveep ze room for her, and we get ac-
quainted a leetle, and I have come two other
times and send her a flower or a leetle soup or
such ting ; but zat is all I know. She did tell
me — yes — zat her husband have money saved
up ven he come here, but he breaked his leg ;
zat vas a great expense, and she also has been
long sick. But I tink dem to be good, honest
people too proud to beg."

" Then you can't recommend the man ? "

" No, not as to vork, for zat I do not know.
But I hope you vill see Mr. Lawrence. He is
a builder and has employed him. Stay, it is
but a step ; if you vill but vait here I vill ask
Mr. Lawrence myself."

" No," said Harold, " I will go ; pray don't
take so much trouble. They are poor, then,
these Higginses ? "

" Very poor, I fear, sir, but zey do not tell
me ; I am not of zeir profession ; zey are Prot-
estants as yourself, sir," said the priest, with
a little wistful glance up at Harold's face.
(" He wants to convert me," thought Harold.)
** Zey speak but leetle to me of zeir affairs, and
I vish not to intrude."

" Certainly not," said Harold. " I thank
you for your courtesy — ah — Father ; and I
will wish you good afternoon."

150 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

The old priest insisted on picking a most
gorgeous tulip for him, saying, ''It is so great
a pleasure to give to one who knows of flowers."

" Decidedly, he means to convert me,"
thought Harold, walking up the hill. His sin-
gle acquaintance in Xerxes had invited him to
a " tea-party," a festivity of ambiguous nature,
but he was told enjoyable, and to it he was now
hastening. Xerxes is on the Mississippi ; and
as Harold stood on the Gilberts' vine-covered
porch, he could see the river shining through
the tender green leaves. He thought that he
would write Lily of the pretty home which the
Gilberts had, and how beautiful was the river ;
and then, with a sharp pang, he remembered
that none of his friends or thoughts mattered
to Lily any more. In most incongruous spirits
he was ushered by his host through two hand-
somely and airily furnished rooms, filled with
ladies in black silk and point lace. Apparently
the gentlemen were all in the hall. Harold
was introduced to Mrs. Gilbert, a pretty little
woman with very bright brown eyes and very
white hands, and so sweet a voice that Harold
thought the western accent delicious. She in-
troduced him to some fifty other women, young
and old, who all asked him how he liked Xerxes.
He said, with diffidence, that it seemed to him
" rather muddy."

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 151

They, without exception, opened their eyes
very wide and said, —

" Do you think it muddy noio ? "

" Is it possible for a place to be muddier ? "
cried Harold desperately, at last.

Mrs. Gilbert made a little grimace. " You
are evidently fresh from some effete monarchy
where they pave the very alleys. Mr. Durham,
this is n't mud, this is fair walking ; when we
are muddy the cross streets are impassable;
people don't even dare to die because they know
they can't have a funeral ! "

" But the farmers," said Harold ; " how do
they come to town ? "

" Oh, they don't come."

" But is n't it very awkward, you know? "

" Very," said Mrs. Gilbert placidly. " Will
you sit here, Mr. Durham ? "

Harold perceived that a number of small
tables had appeared in the rooms, and that peo-
ple were seating themselves around them. He
found himself provided mysteriously with a nap-
kin and a tiny bouquet, and seated near a very
pretty girl who was equally amiable, but whom,
I am sorry to say, he was never able afterward
to describe. Indeed, all through the " tea," —
which was an elaborate supper, by the way, —
he talked mechanically. Once only he was
roused to any interest in the conversation. A
lady near him was speaking ; —

152 KNITTERS IN THE SUN

" I said to her right off, I could n't help it,
' Mrs. Hunter,' I said, ' you ain't going to send
Mary to the Sisters ? ' ' Well, yes,' she said,
she ' guessed so ; her father did n't feel he could
afford to send Mary East this year, and Mary
had shown such a decided taste for painting
they thought just for this year they would let
her try the Sisters.' "

" A year ! " repeated one of the listeners in
a hollow voice, " a year ! Six months is enough
for them ! She '11 come back a Romanist, Mrs.
Dow."

" Of course she will. I would n't send a
child of mine to a Romanist school if they had
to grow up ignorant."

'* What I object to in the Papists," said a
gentleman opposite, " is their proselyting spirit.
They are quite welcome to their superstitions
for themselves, but when they come to this
country for refuge and we receive them, the
least they can do is to keep from forcing their
religion on us. The Romanists are getting to
be a political power in this country, and unless
we stop their influence now, while we have the
power, we shall soon find that the church of
Rome hasn't lost its old persecuting spirit."

" Oh, well," said a stout lady near Harold,
with a comfortable, tolerant smile dimpling her
handsome face, " there are good people every-

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 153

wbere ; I have seen as good Catholics as Prot-
estants ; the best cook I ever had was a Cath-
olic. It 's the priests I can't bear ; the poor,
deluded people I pity."

It was generally agreed that the priests were
deceitful above all things, and one lady who
had lately heard Edith O'Gorman darkly hinted
that they were also desperately wicked. Mrs.
Gilbert had been listening to the conversation
in silence ; at this last remark she spoke.

" You really didn't expect me to hear that
and say nothing, did you ? " she said laughing.
"I don't know what the priests are in other
countries ; I 've never lived there ; but here in
America I know they are in the main, to say
the least, hard-working, devoted, honest men of
irreproachable lives. I should think any one
in Xerxes could see that. Look at Father
O'Rourke, who does good every day he lives,
who has got those wild Irish boys of his church
into a literary society, and is making decent
men of them ; and Father Qainnailon, who is a
saint if ever " —

The stout lady interrupted her to say that
she always excepted Father Quinnailon. " And
the Sisters of Mercy," she added.

" Who is Father Quinnailon ? " asked Harold.
Every one looked at Mrs. Gilbert.

" Father Quinnailon," said Mrs. Gilbert, " is

154 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

an old settler who came here when Xerxes was
a village and everybody was dying of cholera.
My father and mother had just come here then,
and my mother had the cholera. They could
n't get a house anywhere, and were thankful
enough to get into a warehouse where there
was a crowd of German emigrants in the same
case, and half of them down with the cholera.
Our furniture had not come (things came on
boats then, and I believe our boat was fast on a
sand bar) ; my poor mother had not a bed to
lie on, only some husks and a piece of carpet,
until Father Quinnailon brought his own mat-
tress to her. Poor man, he slept on the hard
floor because of it. And he used to bring her
and the poor Germans who were there, too,
soup and all kinds of things which he would
make at home."

'' They were Catholics ? " said Harold.

" Catholics ? They were all heretics, every
soul of them. Father Quinnailon never inquired
about a sufferer's religion before he helped him.
And as for proselyting — look at us, who have
known the dear old man all our lives and are
as firm Presbyterians as you can find I "

" Yes, Father Quinnailon is a good man,"
said the stout lady. "I remember, thirty years
ago, when I first came here and our house took
fire, how he was up on the roof, the first man,

o

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 155

witli his bucket ; he always used to go to every
fire with that bucket before we had the fire
companies."

"And he was a loyal man during the war,"
said the gentleman who had spoken first; "give
every one his due, I say. Father Quinnailon
did a great deal to encourage enlistments, and
I must say I liked those queer little speeches
he used to make about ' supporting ze generous
country zat have receive us,' when we had flag
raisings."

"Well," said another gentleman, " he 's likely
to receive the reward of all his virtues ; I hear
they 're going to make him bishop of the new
diocese in this state."

" Yes, and the poor man is so distressed
about it, Mr. Graham," said Mrs. Gilbert. "He
told me of it with tears in his eyes ; he said
that he had written and begged them not to
think of it ; ' for,' he said, ' I am not a learned
man, I cannot be a bishop, I am but fit to min-
ister to the poor people.' "

" I have heard of that kind of thing in apos-
tolic times," said Mr. Graham, " but I have
never seen any clergyman who would decline
promotion, myself. It is n't the salary, you
understand, it 's the larger opportunities of
usefulness. You will find Father Quinnailon
will take the same view of it."

166 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" I don't think so," said Mrs. Gilbert.

" Well, I don't think so either," said the
stout lady. '' Father Quinnailon is a kind of
apostolic man, if he does pray to idols and wor-
ship the Virgin Mary."

" But he does n't," said Mrs. Gilbert. " I
never saw a Catholic who did."

There were several exclamations.

" Perhaps not the better classes " — began
Mr. Towne.

Mrs. Dow interrupted him. " Don't you
think Romanists pray to the Virgin, Mrs. Gil-
bert ? I know I 've read in ' Life and Light '
the letters from our missionaries among the
Romanists, in Spain and Mexico and Austria,
and they talk about the superstitious obser-
vances there."

" I never knew any Mexicans or Spaniards,"
said Mrs. Gilbert. " I have known Austrians,
but they never thought of* such a thing. All
the Catholics I know have told me that they
only pray the Virgin to intercede for them with
God. They would feel it as blasphemous to
pray to her directly as you or I would."

" But I have read in ' Life and Light,' " said
the unshaken Mrs. Dow, " that some Mexicans
who were converted and became Christians "— r

" What were they before ? " asked Harold.
Romanists," answered Mrs. Dow severely.

((

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 157

" ITie^/ said that they used to kneel down be-
fore the Virgin's shrine and prai/ ! "

" Well, it does n't make much difference
whether they call it interceding or not," said
Mr. Towne; "they pray to her; that's the
main point."

Mrs. Gilbert gave Harold a helpless glance,
and changed the subject. Shortly after Harold
made his excuses and went away.

During the two months following he was
much in Xerxes. He often met Father Quin-
nailon, for most of his tenants were the old
priest's parishioners. From a few words of
greeting they soon came to long conversations ;
not upon religion, but upon the people in whom
they were both interested and upon the many
difficulties in the way of helping the poor.
Sometimes Harold would talk to Higgins, whom
he had employed, about the priest. Higgins
always called him " Mister Quinnailon," which
title it appeared was Mr. Higgins' oblique pro-
test against the errors of Rome, he being one
of the best of Protestants though an indifferent
Christian.

" Fact is," he said confidentially to Harold,
" since Bessie 's been sick, I 've kinder got out
of the way of going to church ; now she 's bet-
ter, I guess I'll begin again. But for all that,
I ain't forgot the stories my mother used to tell

158 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

me 'bout John Rogers and all them. We had
a whole book about them, full of pictures of
people being burned and hung and prodded
with spears and sich things ; we used to be let
to read in it Sunday afternoons. No, sir, no
Catholic in mine ! But Mister Quinnailon 's
an honest man, if he is a priest, and he 's done
a sight of kind things to us. I 've seen him
off with his coat and wash the dishes himself.
And, between you and me, I guess Bessie tells
him the most of her troubles. ' Don't you be
letting him make you a Catholic, Bessie,' says
I. ' He 's making me a better Protestant,
Obed,' says she ; ' it ain't in me to ever be a
Catholic, and he knows it, but his talks and
his prayers make me feel better,' says she.
He 's a pretty good man, and that 's what I '11
stick to."

Harold also talked of Father Quinnailon to
Mrs. Gilbert, although he considered her testi-
mony biased beyond expression. Mrs. Gilbert
drew her own conclusions from these conver-
sations, and from the despondency which Har-
old's most strenuous efforts failed to conceal.

" He is having some trouble with his girl,"
said Mrs. Gilbert. " I do believe, from all his
questions about Father Quinnailon and Roman
Catholics, that she is one, and that 's the trou-
ble. Probably she 's a new convert. If she is.

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 159

she is odious. I never knew a new convert
who was n't ! I confess I 'm of Charles Lamb's
opinion, that one should n't set one's self up
to be wiser than his ancestors, but should stick
to the religion he 's born in, whatever it is."

Mr. Gilbert made no reply ; in fact, he was
taking his Sunday afternoon nap, and had not
heard a word of his wife's discourse.

She was confirmed in her suppositions by
Harold's next conversation. He happened to
be standing at the window as a long procession
of young girls, in whose gowns dark red pre-
dominated, brightened the dingy street, four
familiar black-robed figures leading the proces-
sion, four more guarding the rear. Harold,
idly watching them, saw a merry young face
turned towards him with a frank smile, suc-
ceeded by a blush.

" Why, there 's Mamie Hunter ! " exclaimed
Mrs. Gilbert. " How shocked Mrs. Dow would
be to see her ! You remember her dread of the
Sisters' influence ? "

"Don't you think they do try to proselyte?"
Harold said.

" Very likely. They are human, and they
believe their faith is the only sure foundation
for goodness and happiness. I know Protestant
girls' schools do their best to give their religious
character to their scholars. The one I went

160 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

to — and there is a better nowhere ! — made a
tremendous assault on a girl's sensibilities."

" Nevertheless you must admit that the whole
tone of Protestants is more tolerant than that
of Catholics."

" Yes, I suppose so. I have been told so
from my youth up ; but individually, I confess
the Catholics I have known have shown a
broader charity towards Protestants than the
Protestants have shown to the Catholics. One
of my dearest friends is a devoted Catholic ;
she knows a great deal more than I, with my
two babies, can ever hope to achieve ; and she
is the best, the sweetest, the most truthful, and
the truest girl I ever knew. I have known her
ten years ; I love her, and she loves me ; but
in all that time I never heard a word from her
in praise of her church or in disparagement of
mine. And though my other Catholic acquaint-
ances are n't such absolute angels as she, I can
say the same thing of them. There are plenty
of bigoted Catholics, of course, but I think they
are mostly among the uneducated people ; and
I don't think they make the most tolerant Prot-
estants."

Harold shrugged his shoulders. " They talk
like angels of light, now, but wait until they are
stronger politically " —

" I don't know much about politics," inter-

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 161

rupted Mrs. Gilbert, " but I do know tliat if
the Protestant creed is driven out of America,
it will be because it is not fit to stay, and de-
serves to go ! But I confess I see no signs of
such things, and I d(3 see that there is — what
do you call it? — a reflex influence. If the
Catholic Church is affecting America, so is
America affecting the Catholic Church. And I
actually, do you know, am such a lukewarm
Protestant that I can conceive of them both
doing each other good."

Harold smiled and said that she was too
clever for him. He did not pursue the subject ;
he was in no humor for argument ; indeed, in
those days he was abjectly miserable.

" The Rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the Rose ;

The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare ;

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair ;

The sunshine is a glorious birth ;

But yet I know, where'er I go.
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.'*

Harold still has the old memorandum book
in which he copied this stanza one day when he
was particularly despondent ; and it is the best
record of his feelings. Every passing interest
seemed to fling a chain of associations to grap-
ple Lily's image to his thoughts. When he

162 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

picked the first auemone, in a ravine, he wanted
to tell her how much earlier the flowers came
to him than to her ; when Mrs. Barnes's little
Annie sickened with a baleful something, sup-
posed to be small-pox but proving no worse
than measles, he longed to pour out his relief to
her ; when he settled the drain plans to his
satisfaction, he longed as much to impart his
pleasure ; when he went to church, even, he
could not sit in his pew without seeing again
the light streaming through the rich hues of
the stained window on the oval of her cheek
and her beautiful hair, without feeling again
the stir of a tender dream in his heart. A hun-
dred pretty conceits assailed his fancy, and he
had never in the whole time of their friendship
compared her to so many fair and adorable ob-
jects as he did during those two unhappy
months. He went back and forth from Xerxes
to Chicago, but he saw nothing of the Maines,
and he found his existence duller every day.

Mrs. Gilbert became quite settled in her
theory of the something on his mind.

" My dear Jim," she remarked to Mr. Gil-
bert, — who " did n't see anything out of the
way in Durham," — "my dear Jim," she said,
with that air of compassionate moderation
which in a woman denotes that she has given
up trying to sound the depths of masculine ob-

o

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 163

tuseness and feels no longer irritation but pity,
" did you ever know a man who was n't deaf
and did n't have something on his mind hear so
little of what was said as Mr. Durham does ?
He is always saying, <- 1 beg pardon ! ' in his
horrid English way." She declared that he
was growing thin ; and a second time confided
her explanatory romance to her husband. He
burst into a great, rude, unbelieving laugh,
and shouted out that he would tell Harold ; a
threat which, Mrs. Gilbert afterward said, fairly
sent cold chills through her.

But Harold was not told, and unconsciously
went his dismal way, working much harder
than was good for him and sleeping much less.
Oddly enough, it may seem, he found his great-
est comfort in Father Quinnailon's friendship.
The old man's simple and loving heart from
the first had warmed to him, and Harold,
though thinking himself mighty cynical at
present, had a nature easily touched by genu-
ine kindness. He took a languid pleasure in
helping the priest's little charities, or sending
him rare plants for his garden, or sometimes
driving him along the beautiful river shore, to
see a sick child or an aged woman who lived
too far from the church to come often to the
services. They spoke French together on these
drives. The priest was only the son of a peas-

164 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

ant, and spoke quite frankly of his humble
origin. His father and mother had long been
dead; he had no nearer relatives living than
aunts and cousins, whom he had never seen ;
but he never wearied talking of his native vil-
lage and the old curS who had been his first
teacher.

" He is dead, too," he said ; " so many are
dead ! It is lonely to be an old man, my son."

Harold found it decidedly difficult, about this
time, to keep his distrust of the Roman Catho-
lic clergy as active as behooved a stanch Prot-
estant. However, he thought of bloody JVIary
and the Spanish Inquisition and the Machia-
velian wiles of the Jesuits, and he held his lik-
ing for Father Quinnailon well in check until
one day nearly two months after his arrival in
Xerxes. It was a May day, in the mornings
there had been a rain during the night, and the
sidewalks, the piles of brick, and the loose
boards scattered over the grass were steam-
ing in the sun. Some women were washing
clothes ; they had stretched a rope from one
tree to another, directly above the hod-carri-
er's path, so that the red and yellow flannels
flapped against the hods. A few bare-legged
little children were wading through the wet
jimson weeds which bordered the sidewalk, and
their laughter mingled with the shrill clangor

o

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 165

of the blue jays in the tree tops. Harold
looked and listened and only half heard Hig-
gins who was talking to him.

*' There 's the new bishop," said Higgins,
suddenly.

Harold saw Father Quinnailon approaching ;
he walked more slowly than was usual with
him, and his head was bent.

" Is he to be bishop ? " asked the young man.

" Yes, they done it at last, after hanging fire
three months, made the new diocese and he 's
appointed ; only needs the Pope's approval
now."

Harold stroked his moustache to hide a sneer.
"Larger opportunities for usefulness, I fancy,"
he muttered to himself. Then half ashamed
of his thought, he cordially greeted the old
priest, whom he had not seen for a week as he
had been in Chicago. Father Quinnailon was
looking sadly ill.

" You have heard ? " he said anxiously, in
French.

"I have heard only good news," Harold re-
plied ; " that you are to be bishop."

" It is that, it is that," cried the priest, sigh-
ing heavily; "for see, my son, I have fasted,
I have prayed, but it is still the same to me.
I would give up my people, with whom I have
been so long, whom I love so dearly, if I could

166 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

be a bishop; but I am a simple old man, not
fit for such a high office, I should make mis-
takes ; I should make the people to laugh at our
holy religion. I have written. It is pain to
me to write, who write so poorly; but I have
written many — three — four — letters, I have
besought them. But they will not heed me.
There remains one thing only. I have sgld
the little that I have, and my people out of
their poverty will give me some little more,
and I will go to the Holy Father. It is not
much which I need ; I can live on little things
— soup, good black bread that I have eaten as
a lad ; and I do not care to ride in the grand
coaches like nobles ; I shall have enough.
There I shall go ; I will fall at the feet of the
Holy Father, and beseech him not to make a
bishop out of a poor, simple old man who can-
not bear so great a burden ; but to let me come
back and die among my dear people ! "

The priest had clasped his hands, and the
tears were rolling down his cheeks ; the women
who had drawn near were rubbing their eyes,
although they could not understand a word.
Harold, uttering an inarticulate exclamation,
strode off through the grass. Before the priest
could speak he strode back again, and began to
shake the old man's hand.

"Father Quinnailon," he cried, "I respect

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 167

you from the bottom of my heart ; you are a
good man ! Yes, if I am a heretic you mustn't
refuse it ! " He thrust a bill into the priest's
hand ; and in spite of bloody Mary and the
Inquisition and the Jesuits, — not to mention
two German farmers and the six women hang-
ing out clothes, ^ — he took off his hat and bowed
his head to the priest's blessing.

" May God bless you, my son ; I will not
refuse the gift of a generous heart. And may
God bring us to meet again in this world, if it
be His will ; but if not, may He bring you and
me to worship Him in Heaven with all his
Saints, by the way He sees best."

Then Harold actually ran away, followed by
the women's voluble blessings.

He was one of the multitude who gathered
at the depot the next morning to see Father
Quinnailon start on his long journey. Mrs.
Gilbert described the scene to James.

" Never was there such time of weeping and
wailing ! Father Quinnailon cried and the
people cried and the babies just howled ! In
the midst of all this grief I managed to lose
my handkerchief, and you 've no idea, Jim,
how awkward it is to have nothing but your
gloves to cry on ! I thought of borrowing Mr.
Durham's, — he was there, — but he looked so
grand and glum and so dreadfully well dressed

168 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

that I felt it was quite too much to ask, so I
sniffed and winked and choked and got on as
well as I could without it. I saw him going
into St. Patrick's, when I came home ; what-
ever do you suppose he was doing ? "

Harold himself could hardly have answered
her question. He saw the church doors stand-
ing open, and obeying an impulse whose depth
he did not gauge, he entered. He had never
been in the church before. Evidently it was
a church of the poor ; the worn pine pews, the
colored lithographs representing the Saviour's
passion, which were the only ornaments of
unpainted walls, the wooden crucifix above
the high altar, the white wooden steps to the
altar crowded with votive offerings of the
cheapest artificial flowers, the lace paper fring-
ing the altar steps ; all told of stinted purses.
Yet in their careful neatness there was a touch
of pathos to Harold ; it was as though the
sacred symbolism of altar and cross had made
the mean material precious. While he was
musing thus, two women came down the aisle
and knelt in a pew near him. One of them
was a very old woman with a grotesquely
wrinkled and withered face, shaded by a huge
white cap like the caps in Sir Joshua Reynolds'
portraits, only the crown had somehow shrunken
to a scanty bag. The other woman was still

o

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 169

young ; she carried a heavy basket, and there
was a bruise on her cheek. Both were very
poorly dressed, and both prayed devoutly.
Harold watched them for a few moments, and
then walked softly out of the church. He was
about to put a piece of silver in the box at the
door when he perceived another man there,
hand extended ; and the man turning, to his
infinite amazement he saw the features of
that sturdy enemy of the Scarlet Woman, Mr.
Obed Higgins. They wore a singular expres-
sion of shamefaced emotion. Higgins made a
sign with his forefinger implying a desire for
further communication, and tiptoed out to the
sidewalk.

" I did n't suspect you of generosity in that
quarter, Higgins," said Harold.

Higgins rubbed his forehead. " Well now,
Mr. Durham, wa'n't you there, yourself ? You
can't say he wa'n't a good man ; and I had n't
no other way of showing I appreciated what he
done for Bessie ; and anyhow, 't ain't for the
church, if I rightly understand it, — it 's for
the poor."

"I don't blame you, Higgins," said Harold,
and walked away.

We do not often understand what it is that,
in the slow changing of our judgments and
ideals, completes the transmutation and turns

170 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

chaos into form ; but often we can remember
the moment wlien the new powers demanded
their first hearing. Harold always remembered
the May morning on which he owned to him-
self that he had been gravely unjust.

" In short, I have been a bigot," said he ;
" because I thought the Catholic faith was a
remnant of the Dark Ages, and because I believe
it politically dangerous, I, who belong to the
party of toleration, could n't tolerate their com-
ing here and trying to disseminate their belief
just as I try to disseminate mine. I have
judged people solely on the evidence against
them, without listening to what they might
have to say for tliemselves ; I have had mean
suspicions of a kind old man ; I have n't done
justice, much less shown mercy; it's a disgust-
ing fact, I 'm a bigot."

He was walking up the hill. The air was
very soft, and the sky was unfathomably clear,
and the river, in the sunlight, took on blue and
silver tints which he had never noticed before.
He saw a violet growing amid the long grass
close to a fence and picked it ; he had told
Lily often that she was a violet rather than a
lily. A great wave of remorseful tenderness
swept over Harold's heart, and washed it clean
from any taint of bitterness or selfish pride.
" Oh, my love," he whispered to the little

o

FATHER QUINNAILON'S CONVERT. 171

flower, " have I been unjust and cruel to 7/ouf
By Jove, I 'm not only a bigot but a snob ; I
needed Father Quinnailon to take the worldli-
ness out of me. What right had I to ask Lily
to give up her principles ? It was just the
same conceited stuff as my wanting those poor
creatures in the church to give up the religion
which helps them to bear their hard lives ! "

The sequel to meditation of this sort is easy
to imagine. Harold wrote nine letters, which
he tore up into such small pieces as to give
much trouble to the chambermaid when she
read them ; and then he took the evening train
for Chicago.

At nine o'clock upon the following morning
he met Lily at the door of her mother's house ;
to be exact, her hand was on the door-knob.
The young people looked at each other ; and
Harold, after a night spent in the composition
of penitent speeches, found nothing better to
say than, —

"Lily, can you forgive a fool?"

" If I had been a fool, too, and — and I —
loved him, I might," said Lily.

What is there left to add ? I have no doubt
that Harold will learn to admire all Dr. Jeru-
sha Dale's virtues, but I doubt much if his
mother ever will like her. Father Quinnailon
succeeded in his mission, and his memories of

172 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Rome and the Pope's kindness will make the
rest of his days bright. Perhaps I should add
that the Gilberts were present at Harold's wed-
ding ; Mrs. Gilbert was very pretty and very
jubilant, saying to her husband, "You may re-
member, Jim " —

" I remember you said Durham was sweet on
a Roman Catholic," said the rude James, " and
you hoped Father Quinnailon would convert
him to toleration."

" Well, he did convert him to tolerating
something a great deal worse than the Catho-
lics, who do dress like other people, however
bad their hearts may be ! James, do you know,
I think conversion 's like archery ; of course
you mean to hit the gold, but you are glad if
you get your arrow anywhere in the target ! "

o

A COMMUNIST'S WIFE.

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

The Countess von Arno was Mr. Seleigman's

confidential clerk. Not that M smiled

over any such paradox ; the countess called her-
self simply Mrs. von Arno.

M is a picturesque town on the Missis-
sippi, devoted in general to the manufacture of
agricultural implements. The largest plow-
factory is Seleigman's : he does business all
over the world. A clerk who wrote French,
German, and Italian fluently was a godsend.
This clerk, moreover, had an eminently concise
and effective style, and displayed a business
capacity which the old German admired im-
mensely. As much because of her usefulness
as the modest sum she was able to invest in
the business, he offered her a small share in it

four years after she first came to M . She

had come to M because Mrs. Greymer

lived there. Therese Greymer had known the
countess from her school-days. When her hus-
band died she came back to her father's house,

174 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

but spent her summers in Germany. Then old
Mr. Dare died suddenly, leaving Therese with
her little brother to care for, and only a few
thousand dollars in the world. About this
time the countess separated from her husband.
" So I am poor," said she, " but it will go hard
if I can't take care of you, Therese." Thus
she became Mr. Seleigman's clerk. M for-
gave her the clerkship, forgave her even her
undoubted success in making money, on account
of Mrs. Greymer. It had watched Therese
grow from a slim girl, with black braids hang-
ing down her white neck as she sat in the
" minister's pew " of the old brick church, into
a beautiful pale woman in a widow's bonnet.
Therese went now every Sunday to the same
church where her father used to preach. The
countess accompanied her most decorously.
She was a pagan at heart, but it pleased Ther-
ese. In church she spent her time looking at
her friend's profile and calculating the week's
sales.

The countess had a day-dream : the dreams
which most women have, had long ago been
rudely broken for her, and the hopes which she
cherished now had little romance about them.
She knew her own powers and how necessary
she was to Seleigman ; some day she saw the
firm becoming Seleigman & Von Arno, the

o

A COMMUNISTS WIFE, 175

business widening, and the plows, with the
yellow eagle on them, in every great city of
Europe. " Then," said the countess to herself,
standing one March morning, four years after
she had first come to M , by the little din-
ing-room window — "then we can perhaps per-
suade the workmen to buy stock in the concern,
and have a few gleams of sense about profits
and wages."

She lifted one arm above her head and rested
her cheek against it. Otto von Arno during
his brief period of fondness had been used to
call his wife " his Scandinavian goddess." She
was of the goddess type, tall, fair-faced, and
stately, with thick, pale gold hair, and brown
lashes lifted in level lines from steady, deep-
gray eyes. " Pretty " seemed too small a word
for such a woman, yet " beautiful " conveys a
hint of tenderness; and Mrs. von Arno's face —
it might be because of those steady eyes — was
rather a hard face, notwithstanding the soft
pink and white of her skin, and even the dim-
ples that dented her cheek when she smiled.

Now she was not smiling. The air was
heavy with the damp chill of early spring ; and
as the countess absently surveyed a gravel- walk
bordered by limp brown grasses and a line of
trees dripping last night's frost through the
fog, she saw a woman's figure emerge from the

176 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

shadows and come slowly up the walk. She
was poorly dressed, and walked to the kitchen-
door, where the countess could see her carefully
wipe her feet before rapping.

" That must be Bailey's wife," she thought :
" I saw her waiting for him yesterday when he
came round to the shops for work. — William,
my friend, you are a nuisance."

With this comment she went to the kitchen.
Lettice, the maid-of-all-work, was frying cakes
in solitude. " Mrs. Greymer had taken Mrs.
Bailey into the library," she told the countess
with significant inflections.

The latter went to the library. It was a
tiny, red-frescoed room fitted up in black wal-
nut. There were plants in the bay-window:
Mrs. Greymer stood among them, her soft gray
wrapper falling in straight and ample folds
about her slender figure. Her face was turned
toward the countess ; a loosened lock of black
hair brushed the blue vein on her cheek ; she
held some lilies-of-the-valley in her hand, and
the gold of her wedding-ring shone against the
dark green leaves.

" She looks like one of Fra Angelico's saints,"
thought the countess : " the crimson lights are
good too."

She stood unnoticed in the doorway, leisurely
admiring the picture. Mrs. Bailey sat in the

o

A COMMUNISTS WIFE. 177

writing-chair on her right. Once, probably,
she had been a pretty woman, and she still had
abundant wavy brown hair and large dark-blue
eyes with curling lashes ; but she was too thin
and faded and narrow-chested for any prettiness
now. Her calico gown was unstarched, though
scrupulously clean: she wore a thin blue-and-
white summer shawl, and her old straw bonnet
was trimmed with a narrow blue ribbon pieced
in two places. Her voice was slightly monoto-
nous, but low-keyed : as she spoke her hands
clasped and unclasped each other. The veins
stood out and the knuckles were enlarged, but
they were rather white than otherwise.

She went on with her story ; " The children
are so good, Mrs. Greymer ; but six of them,
and me not over strong — it makes it hard.
We hain't had anything but corn meal in the
house all this week, and the second-hand woman
says our things ain't worth the carting. The
children have got so shabby they hate to go to
school, and the boys laugh at Willie 'cause his
hat's his pa's old one and ain't got no brim,
though I bound it with the best of the old braid,
for I thought maybe they 'd think it was a cap.
And the worst was this morning, when there
was nothin' but just mush: we hadn't even
'lasses, and the children cried. Oh, I did n't
go to tell you all this : you know I ain't a beg-

178 KNITTERS IN TEE SUN.

gar. I 've tried to live decent. Oh dear ! oh
dear ! " She tried to wipe away the tears
which were running down her thin cheeks with
the tips of her fingers, but they came too fast.
Mechanically, she put her hand in her pocket,
only to take it out empty.

Mrs. Greymer slipped her own dainty hand-
kerchief, whicli the countess had embroidered,
into the other's hand. " You ought to ha^e
come to me before, Martha," she said reproach-
fully — " such an old friend as I am ! "

" 'T ain't easy to have them as has known
you when you were like folks see you without
even a handkerchief to cry on," said Mrs.
Bailey. " If I 'd known where to turn for a
loaf of bread, I 'd not ha' come now ; but I
can't see my children starve. And I ain't come
to beg now. All we want is honest work.
William has been everywhere since they sent
him away from Dorsey's just because the men
talked about striking, though they didn't strike.
He 's been to all the machine-shops, but they
won't take him : they say he has too long a
tongue for them, though he's as sober and
steady a man as lives, and there ain't a better

workman in M , or D either. William

is willing to do anything : he tried to get work
on the streets, but the street commissioner said
he 'd more men he 'd employed for years asking

A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 179

work than he knew what to do with. And I
thought — I thought, Mrs. Greymer, if you
would only speak to Mrs. von Arno " —

" Good-morning, Mrs. Bailey," said the coun-
tess, advancing. She had a musical voice, clear
and full, with a vibrating quality like the notes
of a violin — a very pleasant voice to hear, yet
it hardly seemed reassuring to the visitor. Un-
consciously, she sat up straighter in her chair,
her nervous fingers plaiting the fringe of her
shawl.

" I heard you mention my name," the coun-
tess continued. "Is there anything you wish of
me?"

Therese came to Mrs. Bailey's assistance :
" Her husband is out of work. Can't you do
something with Mr. Seleigman, Helen? Bailey
is a good workman."

" He is indeed, ma'am," added Bailev's wife
eagerly, " and as sober and faithful to his work :
he never slights one bit."

"I don't doubt it," said the countess gravely;
" but, Mrs. Bailey, if we were to take your
husband on, and the union were to order a
strike, even though he were perfectly satisfied
with his own wages, wouldn't he strike him-
self, and do all he could to make the others
strike ? " Mrs. Bailey was silent.

" A strike might cost us thousands of dollars.

180 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Naturally, we don't want to risk one ; so we
have no union-men. If Bailey will leave the
union he may go to hammering plowshares for
us to-morrow, and earn, with his skill, twenty
dollars a week."

Mrs. Bailey's face worked. " 'T ain't no use,
ma'am," she said desperately ; " he won't go
back on his principles. He says it 's the cause
of Labor, and he '11 stick to it till he dies. You
can't blame a man for doing what he thinks is
right."

*' Perhaps not. But you see that it is impos-
sible for us to employ your husband. Isn't
there something I can do for you yourself,
though ? Mrs. Greymer tells me you sew very
neatly."

" Yes, I sew," said Mrs. Bailey in a dull
tone, " but I 'd be obliged to you, ma'am, if
you 'd give me the work soon : I 've a machine
now, and I'll likely not have it next week.
There 's ten dollars due on it, and the agent
says he '11 have to take it back. I 've paid fifty
dollars on it, but this month and last times was
so hard I couldn't pay."

The countess put a ten-dollar bill in her
hand. "Let me lend you this, then," she said,
unheeding the half shrinking of Mrs. Bailey's
face and attitude ; and then she avoided all
thanks by answering Lettice's summons at the
door.

A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 181

" Poor little woman ! " she said to Mrs. Grey-
mer at breakfast ; " she did n't half like to
take it. She looked nearly starved, too, though
she ate so little breakfast. How did you man-
age to persuade her to take that huge bundle?"

"She is a very brave little woman, Helen.
I should like to tell you about her," said Mrs.
Greymer.

" Until a quarter of eight my time is yours,
and my sympathy, as usual, is boundless."

Mrs. Greymer smiled slightly. " I have
known her for a great many years," she said,
disregarding the countess's last speech ; " she
went to school with me, in fact. She was such
a pretty girl then ! Somehow, she took a fancy
to me, and used to help me with my Practical
Arithmetic " —

" So called because it is written in the most
unpractical and incomprehensible style : yes,
I know it," interrupted the countess.

" Martha was much brighter than I at it,
anyhow, and used to do my examples. She
used to bring me the loveliest violets ; she
would walk all the way over to the island for
them. I remember I cried when her people
moved to Chicago and she left school. I did n't
see her for almost ten years: then I met her
accidentally on Randolph Street in Chicago.
She knew me, and insisted on my going out

182 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

with her to see her home. It was in the sub-
urbs, and was a very pretty, tidy little place,
with a garden in front, where Martha raised
vegetables, and a little plot for flowers. She
was so proud of it all and of her two pretty
babies, and showed me her chickens and her
furniture and a picture of her husband. They
had bought the house, and were to pay for it in
six years, but William was getting high wages,
and she had no fears. Poor Martha ! "

" Their Arcadia did n't last ? "

" No. William got interested in trades-
unions, — there was a strike, and he was very
prominent. He was out of work a long time,
and Martha supported the family by taking in
sewing and selling the vegetables. Then her
third child was born, and she was sick for a
long time afterward, — she had been working
too hard, poor thing ! His old employers took
William on with the rest of the men when the
strike ended, but very soon found a pretext for
discharging him ; and, in short, they used up
all their little savings, and the house went.
William thought he had been ill-used, and be-
came more violent in his opinions."

" A Communist, is n't he ? "

^' I believe so. Martha with her three chil-
dren couldn't go out to work, but she is a model
housekeeper, and she opened a little laundry

o

5?

A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 183

with the money she got from the sale of some
of their furniture. William got work, but lost
it again, but Martha managed in a humble way
to support the family until William had an
offer, to come here ; so they sold out the laun-
dry to get money to moye.'

" Very idiotic of them.'

" After they came here they at first lived
on Front Street, which is near the river, and
Martha caught the chills and fever. William
soon lost his place, and they moved across

the river to D . He became known as a

speaker, and things have been going from bad
to worse ; the children have come fast, and
Martha has never really recovered from her
fever ; and they have had simply an awfully
hard time. I haven't seen Martha for three
months, and have tried in vain to find out
where she lived. Poor Martha ! she has never
complained, but it has been a hard life for
her."

" Yes, a hard life," repeated the countess,
rising and putting on her jacket ; " but it seems
to me she has chiefly her own husband to
thank for it. And six children ! I have my
opinion of Mr. William Bailey."

" You are hardly just to Bailey, Helen. He
has sacrificed his own interests to his principles.
He is as honest — as honest as the Christian
martyrs, though he is an infidel."

184 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" The Christian martyrs always struck me as
a singularly unpractical set of people," said the
countess.

" Maybe ; nevertheless, they founded a reli-
gion and changed the world. And, Helen, you
and the people like you laugh at Commun-
ism and the complaints of the laboring classes,
but it's like Samson and the Philistines; and
this Samson, blind though he is, will one day,
unless we do something besides laugh, pull the
pillars down on his head — and on ours."

" He will ^r?/," said the countess. " If we are
wise, we shall be ready and shoot him dead."
She kissed Mrs. Greymer smilingly, and went
away. Her friend, watching her through the
window, saw her stop to pat a great dog on the
head and give a little boy a nickel piece.

One Sunday afternoon, two weeks later, the

two friends crossed the bridge to D to

visit the Baileys. When they reached the end
of the bridge they paused a moment to rest.
The day was one of those warm, bright spring
days which deceitfully presage an immediate
summer. On the river-sbore crawfishes were
lazily creeping over the gravel. The air rang
with the blue jay's chatter, a robin showed his
tawny breast among the withered grasses, and
a " flicker " on a dead stump bobbed his little
red-barred head and fluttered his yellow wings.

A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 185

Beneatli the bridge the swift current sparkled
in the sun. Over the river, on each side, rose
the hills. The gray stone of the government
works was visible to the right through the leaf-
less trees; nearer, square, yellow and ugh^ stood
the old arsenal. A soldier, musket on shoulder,
marched along the river-edge ; the cape of his
coat fluttered in the breeze, and his slanting
bayonet shone like silver. Before them lay

D , the smoke from its mills and houses

curling into the pale blue air.

The countess drew a long breath ; she had a
keen feeling for beauty. " Yes, it is a lovely
place," she said. *' The hills are not high
enough, but the river makes amends for every-
thing. But what are those hideous shanties,
Therese ? "

" Are they not hideous ? " said Mrs. Greymer.
" They are all pine, and it gets such an ugly
dirt-black when it isn't painted. The glass is
broken out of the windows, and the shingles
have peeled off the roofs. When it rains the
water drips through. In spring, when the
river rises, it comes up to their very doors ; one
spring it came in. It is not a nice place to
live in."

" Not exactly ; still, I suppose people do live
there."

" Yes, the Baileys live there. You see, the
rent is low."

186 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

The countess lifted her eyebrows and fol-
lowed Mrs. Greymer without answering. Some
sulky-looking men were smoking pipes on the
doorsteps, and a few women, whose only Sun-
day adorning seemed to have been plastering
their hair down over their cheeks with a great
deal of water, gossiped at the corner. Half a
dozen children were playing on the river-bank.

" They fall in every little while," Therese
explained, " they are so small, and most of the
mothers here go out washing. This is the
Bailevs'."

William Bailey answered the knock. He
was a tall man, who carried his large frame
with a kind of muscular ease. He had a square,
gray-whiskered face with firm jaws and mild
light-blue eyes. The hair being worn away
from his forehead made it seem higher than it
really was. He wore his working clothes and
a pair of very old boots cut down into slippers.
The only stocking he had was in his hand, and
he appeared to have been darning it. Close
behind him came his wife, holding the baby.
The bright look of recognition on her face at
the sight of Mrs. Greymer faded when she per-
ceived the countess. Rather stiffly she invited
them to enter.

The room was small and most meanly fur-
nished, but it was clean. The walls were dingy

A COMMUNISTS WIFE. 187

beyond the power of soap and water to change,
but the floor had been scrubbed, and what glass
there was in the windows had been washed.
There were occasional holes in the ceiling and
walls where the plaster had given way ; out of
one of these peered the pointed nose and gleam-
ing eyes of a great rat. Judging from sundry
noises she heard, the countess concluded there
were many of these animals under the house,
though what they found to live on was a puzzle ;
but they ate a little of the children now and
then, and perhaps the hope of more sustained
them. A pale little boy was lying on a mat-
tress in the corner, covered with a faded blue-
and- white shawl.

Therese had mysteriously managed to dis-
pose of the basket she had brought before she
went up to him and kissed him, saying, " I am
sorry to see Willie is still sick."

" Yes," said Bailey, smiling bitterly. *' The
doctor says he needs dry air and exercise ; it 's
damp here."

'' Tommy More has promised to lend iis his
cart, and Susie will take him on the island,"
Mrs. Bailey said hastily ; " it 's real country
there."

" But you have to have a pass," answered
Bailey in a low tone.

" Any one can get a pass," said the countess ;

188 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" but if you prefer I will ask the colonel to-day,
and he will send you one to-morrow."

For the first time Bailey fairly looked the
countess in the face ; his brows contracted, he
opened his lips to speak.

" Oh, papa," cried the boy in a weak voice
trembling with eagerness, " the island is splen-
did ! Tommy's father works there, and they 's
cannon and a foundry and a live eagle ! "

'^ Yes, Willie dear," said his father, as he laid
his brown hand gently on the boy's curls. He
inclined his head toward the countess. " I '11
thank you," he said gravely.

The countess picked up a pamphlet from the
table, more to break the uncomfortable pause
which followed than for any other reason.
"Do you like this?" she said, hardly reading
the title.

" I believe it," said Bailey ; " I am a Com-
munist myself." He drew himself up to his
full height as he spoke. There was a certain
suppressed defiance in his attitude and expres-
sion.

" Are you ? " said the countess. *' Why ? "

" Why ? " cried Bailey. " Look at me ! I 'm
a strong man, and willing to do any kind of
work. I 've worked hard for sixteen year ; I 've
been sober and steady and saving. Look what
all that work and saving has brought me ! This

A COMMUNISTS WIFE. 189

is a nice place for a decent man and his family
to live in, ain't it? Them walls ain't clean ?
No, because scrubbing can't make 'em. The
grime 's in the plaster ; yes, and worse than
grime — vermin and disease sech as 't ain't right
for me to mention even to ladies like you, but
it 's right enough for sech as us to live in. Yes,

by G ! to die in ! " He was a man who

spoke habitually in a low voice, and it had not
grown louder, but the veins on his forehead
swelled and his eyes began to glow.

" It is hard, truly," said the countess. " Whose
fault is it ? "

" Whose fault ? " Bailey repeated her words
vehemently, yet with something of bewilder-
ment. " Society's fault, which grinds a poor
man to powder, so as to make a rich man richer.
But the people won't stand this sort of thing
forever."

" You would have a general division of prop-
erty, then ? "

" Indirectly, yes. Power must be taken from
bloated corporations and given to the people;
the railroads must be taken by government;
accumulation of capital over a limited amount
must be forbidden ; men must work for Human-
ity, and not for their selfish interests."

" Do you know any men who are working
so?"

190 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

"I know a few."

" Mostly workingmen ? "

" All workingmen,"

" Don't you think a general division of prop-
erty would be for their selfish interests? "

" I don't call it selfish to ask for just a decent
living."

" I fancy the chiefs of your party would de-
mand a great deal more than a bare decent liv-
ing. Mr. Bailey, the rights of property rest on
just this fact in human nature: A man will
work better for himself than he will for some-
body else. And you can't get him to work un-
less he is guaranteed the fruits of his labor.
Capital is brain, and Labor is muscle, but the
brain has as much to do with the creation of
wealth as muscle : more, for it can invent ma-
chines and do without muscle, while muscle
cannot do without brain. You can't alter
human nature, Mr. Bailey. If you had a Com-
mune, every man would be for himself there as
he is here : the weak would have less protection
than even now, for all those restraints of moral-
ity, which are bound up inseparabl}^ with rights
of property, would have been thrown aside.
Marx and Lasalle and Bradlaugh, clever as
they are, can't prevent the survival of the fit-
test. You knock your head against a stone
wall, Mr. Bailey, when you fight society. You

A COMMUNISTS WIFE. 191

have been knocking it all your life, and now
you are angry because your head is hurt. If
you had never tried to strip other men of their
earnings because you fancied you ought to have
more, as skillful a blacksmith as you would have
saved money and been a capitalist himself.
Supposing you give it up ? Our firm will give
you a chance to make plowshares and earn
twenty dollars a week if you will only promise
not to strike us in return the first chance you
get."

The workingman had listened with a curling
lip. " Do you mean that for an offer ? " he said,
in a smothered voice.

"I mean it for an offer, certainly."

*' Oh, William ! " cried his wife, turning ap-
pealing eyes up to his face.

He grew suddenly white, and brought his
clinched hand heavily down on the table. The
dishes rattled with the jar, and the baby, scared
at the noise, began to scream. " Then," said
Bailey, " you may just understand that a man
ain't always a sneak if he is poor ; and you can
be glad you ain't a man that 's tempting me to
turn traitor."

"I am sure my friend didn't mean to hurt
your feelings," Mrs. Greymer explained quickly,
giving the countess that expressive side-glance
which much more plainly than words says,

192 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" Now you have done it ! " Mrs. Bailey was
walking up and down soothing the baby : the
little boy looked on open-eyed.

" I am sorry if I have said anything which
has seemed like an insult," said the countess ;
" I certainly did n't intend one. Perhaps after
you have thought it all over you will feel differ-
ently. You know where to find me. Good-
evening."

She held out her hand, which Bailey did not
seem to see, smiled on the little boy and went
out, leaving Mrs. Greymer behind.

A little girl with pretty brown curls and
deep-blue eyes was making sand-caves on the
shore. The countess spoke to her in passing,
and left her staring at her two hands, which
were full of silver coin. At the bridge the
countess paused to wait for her friend. She
saw her come out, attended by Mrs. Bailey :
she saw Mrs. Bailey watch her, saw the little
girl give her mother the money, and then she
saw the woman, still carrying her baby in her
arms, walk slowly down the river bank to
where a boat lay keel uppermost like a great
black arrowhead on the sand. Here she sat
down, and, clasping the child closer, hid her
face in its white hair.

" And, upon my soul, I believe she is crying,"
said the spectator, who stopped at the com-

A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 193

mandant's house and obtained the pass before
she went home.

On Monday, Mrs. Greymer proposed asking
little Willie Bailey to spend a week with them.
The countess assented, merely saying, " You
must take the little skeleton to drive every day,
and send the livery -bills to me."

" Then I shall drive over this afternoon if
Freddy's sore throat is better," said Mrs. Grey-
mer.

But she did not go : Freddy's sore throat
was worse instead of better, and his sister had
enough to do for some days fighting off diph-
theria. So it happened that it was a week be-
fore she was able to go to D . She found

the Baileys' door swinging on its hinges, and
a high-stepping hen of inquisitive disposition
investigating the front room : the Baileys had
gone.

" They went to Chicago four days ago," an
amiable neighbor explained ; " they did n't say
what fur. The little boy he cried 'cause he
wanted to go on the island fust. Guess he ain't
like to live long ; he 's a weak, pinin' little
chap."

Only once did Therese hear from Mrs. Bailey.
The letter came a few days after her useless

drive to D . It was dated Chicago, and

expressed simply but fervently her gratitude

194 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

for all Mrs. Greymer's kindness. Inclosed
were three one-dollar bills, part payment, the
writer said, " of my debt to Mrs. von Arno, and
I hope she won't think I meant to run away
from it because I can't just now send more."
There was no allusion to her present condition
or her prospects for the future. Mrs. Greymer
read the letter aloud, then held out the bills to
the countess.

She pushed them aside as if they stung her.
" What does the woman think I am made of ? "
she exclaimed. " Why, it 's hideous, Therese !
Write and tell her I never meant her to pay

me."

" I am afraid the letter won't reach her,"
said Mrs. Greymer.

Nor did it. In due course of time Therese
received her own letter back from the Dead-
Letter Office. The words of interest and sym-
pathy, the plans and encouragement, sounded
very oddly to her then, for, as far as they were
concerned, Martha Bailey's history was ended.
It was in July the countess had met them again.
She was in Chicago. Otto was dead. He had
given back to his wife by his will the property
which had come to him through her, — whether
because of a late sense of justice or a dislike to
his heir, a distant cousin who wrote theological
works and ate with his knife, the countess

A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 195

never ventured to decide. The condition of
part of this property, which was in Chicago,
had obliged her to go there. She arrived on
the evening of the fifteenth of July — a day
Chicago people remember because the great
railroad strike of 1877 reached the city that
day.

The countess found the air full of wild ru-
mors. Stories of shops closed by armed men,
of vast gatherings of Communists on the North
Side, of robbery, bloodshed, and — to a Chicago
ear most blood-curdling whisper of all — of a
contemplated second burning of the city, flew
like prairie-fire through the. streets.

The countess's lawyer, whom she had visited
very early on Thursday morning, msisted on
accompanying her from his office to her friend's
house on the North Side. On Halstead Street
their carriage suddenly stopped. Putting her
head out of the window, the countess perceived
that the coachman had drawn up close to the
curbstone to avoid the onset of a yelling mob
of boys and men armed with every description
of weapon, from laths and brickbats to old mus-
kets. The boys appeared to regard the whole
affair as merely a gigantic "spree," and shouted
" Bread or Blood ! " with the heartiest enthu-
siasm ; but the men marched closer, in silence,
and with set faces. The gleaming black eyes,

196 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

sharp features, and tangled black hair of half
of them showed their Polish or Bohemian blood.
The others were Norwegians and Germans, with
a sprinkling of Irish and Americans. Their
leader was a tall man whom the countess knew.
He had turned to give an order when she saw
him. At that same instant a shabby woman
ran swiftly from a side street, and tried to throw
her arms about the man's neck. He pushed
her aside, and the crowd swept them both out
of sight.

" I think I have seen a woman I know," said
the countess composedly ; " and do you know,
Mr. Wilder, that our horses have gone ? Our
Communist friends prefer riding to walking, it
seems." They were obliged to get out of the
carriage. The countess looked up and down
the street, but saw no trace of the woman.
Apparently, she had followed the mob.

By this time some small boys, inspired by
the occasion, had begun to show their sympathy
with oppressed labor by pelting the two well-
dressed strangers with potatoes and radishes,
which they confiscated from a bloated capitalist
of a grocer on the corner. The shower was so
thick that Mr. Wilder was relieved when they
reached the Halstead street police - station,
where they sought refuge. Here they passed
a sufficiently exciting hour. They could hear

A COMMUNISTS WIFE. 197

plainly the sharp crack of revolvers and the
yells and shouts of the angry mob blending in
one indistinguishable roar. Once a barefooted
boy ran by, screaming that the police were
driven back and the Communists were coming.
Then a troop of cavalry rode up the street on a
sharp trot, their bridles jingling and horses'
hoofs clattering. The roar grew louder, ebbed,
swelled again, then broke into a multitude of
sounds — screams, shouts, and the tumultuous
rush of many feet.

A polite sergeant opened the door of the lit-
tle room where the countess was sittino^ to in-
form her the riot was over. They were just
bringing in some prisoners : he was very sorry,
but one of them would have to come in there.
He was a prominent rioter whom they had cap-
tured trying to bring off the body of his wife,
who had been killed by a chance shot. It
would be only for a short time : the gentleman
had gone for a carriage. He hoped the lady
would n't mind.

The lady, who had changed color slightly,
said she should not mind. The sergeant held
the door back, and some men brought in some-
thing over which had been flung an old blue-
and-white shawl. They carried it on a shutter,
and the folds of a calico dress, torn and tram-
pled, hung down over the side.

198 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Then came two policemen, pushing after the
official manner a man covered with dust and
blood.

" Bailey ! " exclaimed the countess. Their
eyes met.

Bailey bent his head toward the table where
the men had laid their burden. " Lift that,"
he said hoarsely.

The countess lifted the shawl with a steady
hand. There was an old white straw bonnet
flattened down over the forehead ; a wisp of
blue ribbon string was blown across the face
and over the red smear between the eyebrow
and the hair ; the eyes stared wide and glassy.
But it was the same soft brown hair. The
countess knew Martha Bailey.

"There was women and children on the side-
walk, but they fired right into us," said Bailey.
He spoke in a monotonous, dragging voice, as
though every word were an effort. " They
killed her. I asked you to give me work in
your shop, and you would n't do it. Here 's
the end of it. Now you can go home and say
your prayers."

" I don't say prayers," answered the countess,
"and you know I offered you work. But don't
let us reproach each other here. Where are
your children?"

" Ain't you satisfied with what you have done

A COMMUNIST'S WIFE. 199

already?" said Bailey. "Leave me alone;
you 'd better."

" Gently now ! " said one of the policemen.

" Whatever you may think of me," said the
countess quietly, "you know Mrs. Greymer was
always your wife's friend. We only wanted to
help her."

Bailey shook off the grasp of the policeman
as though it had been a feather : with one great
stride he reached the countess and caught her
roughly by the wrist. " Look at her^ will you ? "
he cried ; " you and the likes of you, with your
smooth cant, have killed her ! You crush us
and starve us till we turn, and then you shoot
us down like dogs. Leave my children alone."

" None of that, my man ! " said the sergeant.

The two policemen would have pulled Bailey
away, but the countess stopped them. She had
turned pale even to her lips, but she did not
wince.

" Curse you ! " groaned the Communist, fling-
ing his arms above his head ; " curse a society
which lets such things be ! curse a religion " —

The policemen dragged him back. " You 'd
better go, I think, ma'am," said the sergeant ;
" the man 's half crazy with the sun and fight-
ing and grief."

" You are right," said the countess. She
stopped at the station door to put a bill in the

200 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

policeman's hands : " You will find out about
the children and let me know, please."

Mr. Wilder, who had been standing in the
doorway, an amazed witness of the whole scene,
led her out to the carriage. " He 's a bad fel-
low, that rioter," he said, as they drove along.

The countess pulled her cuff over a black
mark on her wrist. " No, he is not half a bad
fellow," she answered, " but for all that he has
murdered his wife."

Nor has she ever changed her opinion on that
point ; neither, so far as is known, has William
Bailey changed his.

o

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN.

A STUDY.

The Alfred McGinnis was passing through
Lake Pepin, It was six o'clock in the afternoon
of a June day, 1878. On the lower deck groups
of " roustabouts " were scattered among the
flour barrels, at the foot of a row of monster
threshing machines which glistened with red
paint ; the upper deck was crowded ; and ten
women all wearing black — not in mourning
for dead kindred but because they were trav-
eling — admired the Mississippi from the pilot-
house.

The boat had rounded point No Point (whose
facetious character had been duly explained by
the pilot) ; and nothing was now to be seen
save the wide stretch of steel-gray waters, soft-
ening into blue with the distance ; and on either
side, the high, steep hills. The ragged line of
hill-tops was pierced by the underlying rock
into a fantastic semblance of ruined forts and
castles, or dented by vast hollows which might
easily have served for amphitheatres ; as though

202 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

some vanished race had here lived and fought
and kept barbaric festivals. Nature subtly
aided the fancy with a profusion of shrubbery
flung over the crumbling walls and here and
there a slender umber streak climbing up the
hillside, marvelously like a foot-path.

All this landscape wore the sumptuous tints
of early summer. Sombre masses of pine and
dull red brown rocks intensified the effect of
the yellow green of the maples and the white
green of the willows and the bars of green sun-
light burning along the grass between the
shadows. The sun had not yet dropped below
the horizon, there were no flaming hues, but
the sky was filled with soft grays and silver
mists floating in a sea of tender blue, and away
to the southwest a dark blue circle looked out
from a halo of dazzling white light.

A lady and gentleman who had just come on
to the hurricane deck paused a moment to gaze
at this scene. They were both young and the
lady was beautiful. Her beauty was of that
English type which New England has preserved,
or possibly revived ; there were the fair, broad
brow, the pale gold hair, the mildly Roman
profile, the exquisite coloring, and the charming
figure of English loveliness. Usually such
beauty in the American is etherealized, one
might almost say attenuated ; she is a thought

o

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 203

too slender, — often she is a thought too pale.
Mrs. Berkely, the lady in question, was slender
but she was not too pale ; the women on the
boat had said with a sigh, " What complexions
those Boston girls do have ! " They inferred
that she came from Boston because of her erect
carriage, her soft, distinct intonations, the some-
what cold reserve of her manner, and the severe
elegance of her toilet, — " prim," I think, was
the word used. Nevertheless Mrs. Berkely was
not a Boston girl, she was a native of Pittsfield,
Massachusetts, a delightful town where they
have ancestors, go to Europe at decent intervals,
and play whist according to Cavendish.

Until she was twenty-three Ethel Berkely
had performed, most conscientiously all the
duties pertaining to that station in life to which
a Pittsfield girl is called, including the jour-
neys to Europe and a trip up the Nile, which
may be considered as a work of supererogation.
She was, also, extremely clever and she played
a strong game of whist, never hesitating to sac-
rifice her own hand to her partner's. When
she was twenty-three she married Captain John
Clarence Berkely of the United States army.
Since their marriage, now some three years,
they had been stationed West, and it had struck
them both as a picturesque scheme to explore
the upper Mississippi. Captain Berkely was

204 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

standing b}^ his wife's side. He was rather a
tall young man, thin and dark, with fine brown
eyes and an unobtrusive brown mustache.
Only his square shoulders and the gentle indif-
ference of his expression betrayed the army.
He wore a gray plaid traveling suit and had
that appearance of having very recently attired
himself w^hich is produced by immaculately
stiff and white linen. As he was using his hat
for a fan, one could see that what little hair
the barber had left him was parted in the centre,
a fact which had already excited the unfavora-
ble comments of the captain, the two pilots, and
three fourths of the passengers of the Alfred
McGinnis.

The couple had been exhaustively discussed.
They were regarded (on the grounds of their
youth and expensive clothing) as newly married
people, and their avoidance of the boat society
was charitably ascribed to the pardonable ab-
sorption of lovers. Fortunately for EtlieFs
peace of mind such an explanation of numerous
kindly but curious glances and inquiries had
never occurred to her. She was, indeed, more
interested in the people whom she met than
one would have imagined from her manner —
one, that is, who did not know Pittsfield. At
the present moment she was questioning her
husband about the cabin. What were they
doing, John, and who were there ?

o

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 205

John was not interested; he looked bored.
*' Oh, the usual thing. There are only two
new arrivals, two youthful beings from Texas
on their wedding journey. They came on at
Winona. She is singing, ''Tis but a Little
Faded Flower,' and he sits near with his hands
in his pockets, looking blissful. Then there 's
an old German fast asleep and some women
talking about their 'hired girls,' and forward
there 's a Methodist minister reading his Bible."

" How do you know he is a Methodist min-
ister ? "

" The looks and the coat of him, my dear.
I can always pick out the clergy. Episcopalians
wear white cravats and have their waistcoats
cut high, and if they are high church they have
loner skirts to their coats : the more ' advanced '
their views the longer their coats are. Presby-
terians wear white cravats but their waistcoats
haven't the clerical cut. Congregationalists
lean to black cravats. Unitarians are quite un-
re^enerate in their dress, and the Methodist
parson from the country you can always tell
by his black alpaca coat and the frayed edges
to his shirt collar. Our friend is a Methodist,
perad venture a revivalist ; now I think of it, he
had that kind of disapproving-of-everything-in-
general aspect which marks the Man in Ear-
nest ! "

206 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" He may be a good, humble-minded man,
John."

" And read his Bible in the face of all men ?
Ethel, there is a natural religious modesty which
he outrages. I feel convinced he is a narrow-
minded prig."

Ethel looked at her husband. He fancied
that there was a slightly wistful expression in
her beautiful violet eyes, but without answering
she turned them again to the river and the
hills ; although she was so clever she was not
ready of speech. He wondered what she was
thinking, yet did not ask her, for they held
widely divergent opinions upon some vital ques-
tions, and he rarely cared to define their differ-
ences by discussion. Ethel was the first to
speak, changing the subject in the abrupt fash-
ion of people who know each other well. "See,
John, there is a little house all by itself !
Should n't you think the man who lives there
must be lonely ?"

" Perhaps he is fond of solitude. I should
like a little box like that myself — with you ! "

" Resign and have one."

" I wonder why I don't resign," said Berkely
moodily. " I suppose because I am not fit for
anything else, and I have a weak-minded aver-
sion to lounging about on my wife's money.
But it isn't because I admire the way they
manage things that I stay."

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 207

" This is the worst of possible worlds, is n't
it ? " said Ethel smiling.

" Very nearly."

" Are you then so unhappy, John ? "

"On the contrary, if it were not for those
impertinent pilot-house windows which prevent
my putting my arm about your waist I should
be uncommonly serene."

Ethel shook her pretty head. " John, you
are a dreadful justification of Mr. Mallock !
You seem always shrugging your shoulders and
saying, 'But as for me, the life that now is is
not worth the living ! ' "

" Well, Ismene's cynicism proved very shal-
low ; perhaps mine is too." Ethel shook her
head again ; there fell a little silence which
the voices from the pilot-house penetrated.

" I had a lady friend, and her husband, he
was drowned. He put his life preserver around
her and she seen him raise and sink, raise and
sink, till he went down, and could n't do a
thing ! They saved her and she 's living now,
but nobody ever seen her laugh or be lively
again ; and it 's ten years now ! "

" That was dreadful ! But do you think it
jest right to be so unresigned ? "

" No, I don't, Mrs. Wattles ; it used to make
me feel bad to be with her. I don't think peo-
ple ought to grieve so ; they make everybody

208 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

'round kinder relieved like wten they 're out
of sight. There 's a hymn I 'm very fond of, —
maybe you know it : ' Go bury thy sorrow, the
world hath its share.' "

" That 's sound doctrine," interposed the
pilot's hearty voice, " if it is poetry." (" Not
much poetry, if it is the hymn I know," mut-
tered Berkely.)

A woman's voice joined the conversation, a
high -keyed, ear-disturbing voice with long-
drawn falling inflections and the flat Western
accent, which together made her sentences a
succession of wails.

" That hymn was a great favoryte of cousin
Lou's, she that went to Kansas, Mrs. Wattles.
Goodness knows she 'd enough to bury out
there ; no wood, no water and the wind strong
enough to blow the soul out of your body, living
in a sod house, too, and snakes crawling round
in the walls and dropping down on you in bed
at night, unexpected like, rain soaking through,
— when there was rain, — a mortgage on the
farm and the 'hoppers eating up their crops
bare two years running, and she with her eight
children and three of them dying in one sum-
mer ! I think she did! And then soon 's they 'd
got things fixed up a little, trees planted and a
well dug and a two-story frame with blinds
built — then poor Lou has to die. And he

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 209

posted off to Blue Rapids, six months after,
and married a girl of sixteen ! Oh, the men 1 "

" Well, you 'd have somebody enjoy that
new house, wouldn't you ? " said the pilot.

"No, I wouldn't — for the gracious sakes,
Mr. Ripley, what makes this boat shake so ? "

The captain had walked briskly into the
pilot-house and whispered a few words to the
pilot. "There isn't the least danger, ladies,"
he said impatiently, " we 're jest going ashore,
that 's all."

" Is there any danger, John ? " said Ethel,
drawing nearer her husband.

" Not a bit of it, dear," said John, privately
thinking quite the reverse and measuring the
length of a possible swim with his eye. " There 's
the parson, though, coming up the stairway;
I '11 tackle him if you like and find out all about
it."

He walked up to a tall, gaunt man with a
prominent nose and a stiff black beard. The
new-comer wore the black alpaca coat which
Berkely had mentioned, and his nether garments
of black broadcloth had an unintentional baggi-
ness at the knees. He said " Hey ? " in a loud
voice to Berkely 's first question, but the subse-
quent conversation was unintelligible. At all
events it was reassuring, since Berkely saun-
tered back smiling and told his wife there was

210 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

something tlie matter with the machinery and
they were going ashore for an hour or so to re-
pair things. That was all.

By this time the boat was grinding against
the side of an almost perpendicular bluff. To
the right, the grassy wall was cleft by a deep
and long ravine in which stood a small house
of unpainted pine wood, the same house which
Ethel had noticed a short time before. Behind
the house on the flat lands was a wheat field,
a rectangle of vivid green over which ran rip-
ples of sunlight as the wheat swayed in the
wind. The house door swung on its hinges,
and the doorway framed the figure of a man
holding a wide straw hat a little above his head.
Rather to Ethel's surprise their fellow traveler
in the black alpaca coat instantly waved his
own hat, as if in response to a signal, and ran
hastily down the stairway. A few moments
later he appeared on shore, carrying a large
newspaper bundle and a shabby black leather

bag.

*' Apparently has intentions of sojourning
here," said Berkely ; '' do you care to go, too,
Ethel ? "

" I don't mind, if it 's not muddy."

" Dry as Dr. Todd. Let me take your um-
brella." ■

They found a natural foot-path and, being in

o

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 211

the humor, climbed to a grass overgrown ledge
of rocks, half way up the bluff. There they
paused to rest, saying little, but if one might
judge from their attitude not dissatisfied with
each other's quiet society. Finally, Berkely
proposed a descent on " the hermit."

" How do you know he is a hermit ? " said
Ethel : " he may be an honest farmer with half
a dozen children."

*' No," answered a voice, so near that Berkely
abruptly took his arm from his wife's waist,
" no, he is as lonely as you could wish ! "

" May I ask " — began Berkely haughtily,
looking at the stranger who had emerged from
the sheltering rocks and now stood before them.

*' I came up on the other side," interrupted
the man without the customary smile of expla-
nation. "Would you like to see my place,
ma'am ? "

He lifted his hat as he spoke, revealing a
high projecting forehead and a sallow, sunken-
cheeked face. Under the shadow of his over-
bearing forehead, his large blue eyes looked
out, veiled with an absent-minded mist. His
sunburned hair and beard were so vilely cut that
Berkely decided on the spot that he had been
his own barber with a pair of scissors. He was
short but muscular enough. His costume was
a singular combination of a threadbare black

212 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

frock coat, gray flannel shirt, and blue overalls.
Thus clad, and absolutely unconscious, it ap-
peared, of the grotesqueness of his dress, he
stood unsmilingly waiting Ethel's answer. Yet
he seemed pleased in a sullen and repressed
fashion when his invitation was accepted, and
at once led the way to the house.

Ethel noticed that a vine had been trained
against the side of the house, and there were
pansies blooming in a little flower-bed near the
door. The room which they entered was both
unpainted and unplastered ; a table, chairs, and
stove completed the meagre list of its furniture ;
and its sole ornament was a black easel very
neatly decorated with forget-me-nots, which
held the crayon picture of a lady and child.
Both the visitors glanced at the picture. The
lady had a delicate, pretty face, but did not
look happy although she was smiling ; the child
was a fine little fellow with a large forehead
and eyes like the master of the house. The
latter laid his hand on the frame, saying, " Do
you think it a pretty picture ? "

" Very," answered Berkely ; " is the lady
your wife ? "

" She was my wife," said the man, " she is
dead."

" Oh, I beg pardon," Berkely exclaimed.

'•' You need n't, you 've done no harm," said

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 213

the hermit. " Won't you sit down, please ?
And I have n't asked you to take anything ;
I 've some coffee on the stove and fresh bread
and butter, and I '11 answer for the eggs since
I keep chickens myself." He set plates on the
table, bestirring himself with an air of eager
hospitality which his visitors' politeness could
not resist.

" Besides," Berkely whispered, during a tem-
porary absence of the hermit for eggs, " noth-
ing can be worse than the boat ! "

They had no reason to repent their confidence,
for they found the simple fare excellent. Their
host sat with them, crumbling a piece of bread
but drinking nothing; perhaps he had only the
two cups, Ethel said afterwards. He did not
seem reluctant to speak of himself or of his
lonely life. He lived by his little farm, — not
his own, only rented. In summer he loaded a
skiff with his wheat, and rowed to the mill six
miles farther down the river ; in winter he drew
what few provisions he needed on a sled, skating
himself. Yes, it was lonely, but he had his dog
and his chickens for company. " I 've seen
enough of men," he said grimly.

"I fear you have had a hard life," said
Berkely, " do you mind telling us something of
it?"

" No," said the hermit, " I don't mind. I '11

214 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

never, most likely, see you again, and sometimes
it 's a relief to talk. When I saw you to-day
sitting there together, so happy" (the dismay
on Ethel's face was reflected in Berkely's), " I
felt a sudden longing to talk again with a good
woman. For four years I have n't talked —
except about wheat and such things — to any
man but Wesley Mitchel. I was seized with a
sudden desire to have some fair-minded person
judge my whole case ; I 'm tired of running it
over in my own mind. I know all Wesley has
to say — but you are different I Does this
strike you as very extraordinary, ma'am ? "

" No, I don't think it does," said Ethel, flush-
ing slightly beneath her husband's curious eyes.
" I think I understand — a little — what you
mean."

'' Thank you," said the hermit, " I will tell
3'ou the whole story. My name is Herman
Witte. ^l\ parents were Germans who came
to America when I was ten, and my mother
died the year after. She was a good woman
and her folks were well off in Germany, but
she offended them by marrying father, who was
only a foreman in a foundry. He was n't even
that long, for he fell first into socialism and
then into drink, and the upshot was he came
over here — to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He
got work in the iron mills there easy enough,

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 215

and he was a first-class workman, too, when he
was half sober. He married another German
woman after mother died ; she was n't very
good, but she was good enough for him. There
were seven boys of us, and we all worked in the
iron works. I worked there till I was twenty,
then I was converted by a Methodist preacher ;
and, sir, if ever a man longed and prayed and
agonized to lead a better life I did. The
preacher was interested in me, especially when
my father knocked me down and swore he 'd
have nothing more to do with, such a canting
hypocrite. I 've no doubt that to this day I 'm
an illustration in his sermons. He got me into
a school where they give a weekly stipend to
students who engage to enter the ministry ;
then I went to the seminary, and when the war
broke out I went as chaplain. I served through
the war, saw some fighting, and had a mild
touch of yellow fever, but came out all right
and got my first parish. It was in Iowa ; I
thought I 'd like the West, so went there. It
was in my first parish I met my wife, — her
father was one of the prominent men of my
church. I can't say much about my feeling for
her, but if — if you've ever known anybody,
sir, who seemed to represent everything pure
and good and beautiful to you, making you feel
like some great clumsy animal crawling out of

216 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

a slough, not fit to be in such a presence, even
— you are not likely to have felt that way, but
if you have ever seen anybody who seemed to
be doing naturally and inevitably what you
pant and struggle and fail to do, whose thoughts
the angels must love to look at because there 's
no soil in them, who makes you despise yourself
and hope for yourself at the same time — if you
have known any one like that., sir " —

" Yes," said Berkely, " I have known some
one like that." He was sitting near Ethel and
he laid his hand gently on hers.

The hermit looking up suddenly, smiled for
the first time. "I see, I see," he said. "Well,
sir, I loved my wife as you love yours. I loved
her for two years, not daring to tell her so, for
I could n't forget how I was raised ; why, sir,
the uncouth habits and speech of childhood and
youth are sticking to me still. I was glad my
family had quarreled with me, glad they 'd left
Pittsburgh, glad I 'd lost all trace of them, but
still there they were and I had belonged to
them ! I don't know how I dared to speak to

•

her finally. I think it was her father's death,
leaving her all alone in the world, for her
mother had been dead many years and her re-
lations all lived East. Then, Dr. Wilson had
been too generous a man to die rich, and the
life insurance failed because of some informality.

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 217

You know the tricks of those fellows, sir. Well,
I had to tell Emily the news, and somehow I
was emboldened to speak. Then — think what
it was to me, ma'am — I found she loved me,
and had loved me for months, me ! " He was
sitting with his head resting on his hands, talk-
ing most of the time to a crack in the table ;
now, by a slight movement of the shoulders, he
shielded his face from view. It was a move-
ment exceedingly suggestive.

In a moment he resumed his story, still with
his elbows on the table and his head on his
hands ; his absurdly cut hair had fallen over
his face, his position drew the waist of his coat
half way up his back ; on the whole, he was not
a tragical figure ; yet Berkely, who was suffi-
ciently susceptible to the ridiculous, felt no in-
clination to sraile. " We were married," said
Witte; "at first we were happy. We had a
small salary, never punctually paid, and Emily's
health was poor, but we loved each other and
our two children and we kept up good hearts.
I am telling you the truth as nearly as I can
see it, therefore I will say that I believe I was
what is called a successful preacher, but as a
pastor I failed. I was always fatally embar-
rassed with the most of my congregation. They
called me stiff and pedantic and awkward. It 's
likely enough that I was. A man is apt to be

218 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

stiif and pedantic who is constantly supervising
his own speech and actions. Somehow, too, I
never got near my people, I sympathized with
them from the bottom of my heart but I was n't
fortunate in expressing my sympathy, and natu-
rally enough they did n't give me credit for what
they did n't see. I tried, by hard study, to bal-
ance my deficiencies in pastoral work with fine
sermons ; kept abreast of the popular thought,
as the phrase is, preached on scientific skepti-
cism, and refuted Robert Ingersoll. My con-
gregation called me a rising man, the papers
published abstracts of my sermons, making me
say all kinds of things I never dreamed of, and
the young men used to bring the young women
to hear me in the evening. But in spite of the
crowded pews and the papers and the flatter-
ing things the women said to Emily, I began
to feel that I was preaching to others who was
myself a castaway.

" It was the doctrine of evolution staggered
me first. The more I tried to investigate the
physical basis of life the deeper I found mj^self
in the mire, and the more impossible it seemed
to accept the inspiration of the Scriptures, and
the proved conclusions (to say nothing of the
frohahle conclusions) of modern science. At
the same time I was plunged in other difficulties.
From the first I had visited the poor regularly

o

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 219

(I was one of them, you know), I had worked
up an industrial school and established a read-
ing-room, and my church donated to it all the
worn-out books in the Sunday-school library,
and a number of quite new " Lives of the Meth-
odist Bishops," which we somehow couldn't get
the children to read. I got on better with the
poor than with the respectable people. Yet
they were stumbling blocks. They gave me
an awful sense of the burden of life. There
was n't anything sentimental or poetic about
their suffering or their temptations, and the
worst of their poverty in many cases seemed to
be its apparent necessity. How are men and
women ignorant, squalid, unthrifty, and reckless
to be anything hut poor ? And yet when from
the minute they open their eyes they see noth-
ing about them but ignorance and dirt, how can
they be anything else ? I tell you, sir, my
visits among the poor gave me new light on the
survival of the fittest. And the poverty out
West ain't a circumstance to that of the great
cities East. Yes, sir, the more I saw of the
world and the more in my office I explored the
windings of the human heart the more I saw
how we are only a very little ourselves ! Our
ancestors hold us, sir ; our environment and
our education build bars around us that we can't
break through. There 's awful little margin

220 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

for a man's individual will when you consider
all these things ! I looked about me and it
seemed to me that everywhere the evil was
strangling the good. At first I believed more
implicitly than ever in the devil, then step by
step, inch by inch, with an agony you can't
conceive, I began to disbelieve in God. It was
at this stage of my moral development, when
my little boy was six and my little girl three,
that the conference sent me to a town on the
Mississippi, and there I met Mitchel. You
have seen him ; he came on your boat. Very
likely you did not notice him though, or if you
did, did not think much about him, for he does
not prepossess strangers, but he is the best man
I ever knew, the truest and the noblest ! He
had the Sixth Street Methodist church, for
there are two Methodist churches in the place ;
it 's a large place, though half the population
are Germans who don't go to church at all.
You would have thought, being in the same
city, he would have felt a little bit like a rival
of mine, but instead he seemed to rejoice in my
success. ' You have great gifts, brother,' said
he, ' great gifts ; may the Lord prosper them to
the saving of souls ! ' I liked him from the
first, — he had a simple, confiding faith about
him that attracted me. He was a widower
with five children ; poor, of course, but living

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 221

SO plainly that he always had something to give
and was able to exercise hospitality. ' We
never make any change,' said he, ' and there 's
always plenty though it 's plain, so I 'm always
glad to see my friends.' Why, sir, he brought
the bishop up to his Saturday dinner, just baked
beans and brown bread and a watermelon.
' The bishop is a New England man, too, Maria,'
he says to his sister, ' and I 've told him you
are the best hand at baked beans I know.' And
he sat down with his eyes twinkling over those
baked beans as if they had been a grand dinner.
He enjoys everything, Mitchel does ; and every
one else's pleasure seems like his own. And
so it is with their sorrow. I had n't been with
him six months before I told him something
of the doubts that were eating my heart out.
' You haven't read Joseph Cook,' says he, 'he's
the man for such men as you ! He 's too deep
for me, but then God has been merciful to me
and kept my faith clear, so it don't matter.
You read him, brother, he is a wonderful logi-
cian.' So I read the lectures. Have you ever
read them, sir ? "

" Mrs. Berkely has," answered Berkely ;
"one volume on transcendentalism and that
sort of thing was all /was able to bear."

" Then you know there is a kind of ponderous
fascination about the man; he marshals such

222 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

an enormous array of authorities that at first
you don't dare to examine anything, and his
syllogisms look so imposing you don't think of
asking just what the terms mean. I was car-
ried away by him — why, my poor Emily and
I used to pray every night that God would
bless that man for the spiritual help he Lad
been to me. But it is the curse of such tem-
peraments as mine that they can't stop ques-
tioning while there 's anything left. I began
to ask what Cook meant in his various steps of
the argument instead of simply accepting his
conclusions."

" You must have had a jolly time finding
out," said Berkely.

The hermit looked at him gravely. " I can't
say that I rightly did find out, sir. But I be-
came convinced there were some discrepancies
in his statements. I thought I would go di-
rectly to the German philosophers he talked of.
It was n't so easy to get their works, but I 'd
always kept up my German, and an old Ger-
man lent me a stray volume of Kant, Hegel's
Phenomenology and something of Schopen-
hauer, his essay on the Will. Then Mitchel
got me some odd numbers of a St. Louis maga-
zine that deals with German philosophy mostly,
and then I found more Hegel and some Fichte
and Schelling. And I confess, sir, I got con-

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 223

siderably tangled up among them all and went
to Schopenhauer with my mind in a muddle.
You have read him, sir ? "

" Bits about the Will, merely," said Berkely ;
" my wife amused herself, one summer, teach-
ing me German philosophy. She has read him."

" The Will is the central doctrine. You can
understand, then, how he struck me. He dared
to express all my half-confessed, unworked-out
thoughts. Here was a world that was one uni-
versal battle - field, every species preying on
some other ; war, carnage, agony everywhere,
everywhere an appalling waste ; Nature stingy
only of the means of sustaining life, prodigal
alike of the powers of increase and destruction ;
always utterly indifferent to suffering ! Then
in man himself, the grand result, what do we
see ? The beast survivinor and clutchino^ his
will, dragging him into sin he loathes ; a crea-
ture with just enough appreciation of spiritual
beauty to feel remorse for sins he has n't the
strength to resist ! And this being the uni-
verse, I was to imagine the God of the universe
more merciful than his own laws ! My reason
recoiled, sir. But Schopenhauer makes all this
paradox plain."

'* How? " said Berkely.

" I am afraid I can't make myself as clear as
I 'd like, but this, in brief, is what I understand

224 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Schopenhauer's theory to be. And I ought to
say, in the first place, that he goes to work in-
ductively ; he flings aside the dialectic of the
idealists and finds his facts first, then fits his
theory to them. He goes with Kant so far as
this, that he believes all this visible world to
be, as far as we can know, simply ' a phenome-
non of our own consciousness.' But something
must produce this ' phenomenon,' therefore the
world is ' not a mere shadow world,' but a real-
ity, just as we are a reality and the force behind
the world is the force behind us. That univer-
sal primary force is the will. The essential
principle of man is not a soul (that is, a unit
in which will and consciousness are indissolubly
combined), but what Schopenhauer calls the
' radical of the soul,' the will ; for, the con-
sciousness is, as science teaches us, only the re-
sult of a nervous system, while the will exists
independently, it is found where there is no
nervous system, consequently no consciousness;
therefore the will is the primary force in man.
It is likewise the primary force in nature ; it
has made all the visible forms of life, or rather
they are its representation, just as our bodily
actions are the representation of our will. The
will is the thing in itself which has made all
things. But the will wdthout consciousness is
a blind force, it is simply the will to he, an in-

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 225

finite hunger for existence. This it is which
has turned the polyp into beast and the beast
into man. Now you can see, sir, that this will
being the will to exist at all costs, each creature
struggles for his own preservation careless of
every other, or only careful as far as they have
found out that hurting others will eventually
hurt themselves. 'Nature, regardless of the
individual, studies only to preserve the race.'
Hence the endless conflict we see. There is no
such thing as freedom of the will, as it is gen-
erally understood, because each man's tempera-
ment, that is his destiny, is determined for him
before he is born. The universal will deter-
mines that for each individual, yet he as part
of the universal will may be said to make his
own fate. There is no such thing, either, as
personal immortality. The individual depends
for his consciousness on his nervous system,
and when that decays he vanishes ; his will is
absorbed into the will of the whole. This blind
will of the whole is the only God, and he, as
Von Hartmann truly says, is to be pitied rather
than reverenced. And as there is no God, so
there are no absolute, innate ideas of right and
wrong. Morality is simply a safeguard of ex-
istence, a deduction of experience, men having
learned that some pleasures cost more than they
are worth, and that hurting others in the end

226 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

hurts themselves. Happiness is an illusion
like the rest, for what is it but the cessation of
the pain of desire ? and the will itself is an in-
satiable desire, and the instant we cease to de-
sire we cease to exist. Love is as much of an
illusion as happiness ; there is no future aud no
hope save in ceasing to will, which is annihila-
tion. ' This is the worst possible world, and we
are the worst possible beings ! ' "

" Cheerful, all that," said Berkely, " but go
on!"

" Of course that is n't the whole of it. There
are some beautiful things said about art and ab-
stract conceptions and a man of genius lifting
himself transiently out of the struggle and for-
getting himself in the beautiful ; but the sum-
ming up of it all is that life is an inevitable
failure, art itself is an illusion, and ' history re-
lates,' says Schopenhauer, 'only the long, heavy,
confused dream of humanity.' Now, sir, I can't
give you any idea of the fascinating way in which
Schopenhauer states this theory, I can only say
that he seems to me to explain by it all the
varied phenomena of existence. Can you see
how such a philosophy captured me against my
will ? I did n't want to believe it ; but a thing
is true or not true, and the truth of Schopen-
hauer's doctrines did n't depend on my finding
them unpleasant or the reverse. Against every

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 227

wish and every worldly prospect I had to believe
Lim, sir ! "

" But your wife," said Ethel.

" My wife was an angel, if such things could
be," answered the hermit with a softer inflec-
tion in his tone. " She prayed for me continu-
ally, but when she saw how it was with me she
said, ' Herman, you must give up the ministry ;
the blind cannot lead the blind ! ' So then I
went to Wesley and told him the whole story.
He was dreadfully shocked, but he stuck to
me like a brother — enough better than any
brother /ever had ! ' Yes, you must leave the
ministry,' said he, ' but don't give up the fight,
brother; God won't suffer you to remain al-
ways in darkness.' Well, I left the ministry,
resigned, and preached a farewell sermon giv-
ing my reasons. It made a great stir in the
place for a while ; I know now it broke Emily's
heart. A crowd of people called on me. I was
talked most to death in the two weeks follow-
ing. Some of them congratulated me on my
'manl3^, straightforward course,' as they called
it ; and the Unitarian minister shook hands
with me on the street and told me 'truth had
set me free.' ' What is truth ? ' says I ; ' have
you found it ? I only know that everything
I 've given my life to is a lie. I 'm a miserable
man ! How shall I support my family ? ' He

228 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

said there were other openings for an honest
man. Well, I did n't find them. You see I
belonged to nobody. If I 'd turned Unitarian
or Catholic they would have looked after me a
little, but there I was, a credit to no denomina-
tion's logic, clean outside of everything ! Well,
I '11 not make a long story of it. At first every-
body said Emily was n't to blame, and the
ladies showed their Christian charity by asking
her to lunch parties, which were convenient
because then they need n't ask me.

" But Emily was shy and would n't go,
though I 've often urged her just so she might
get a hearty meal; for it had come to that
with us, ma'am. My congregation had run be-
hind with my salary, and they said the scandal
of my leaving so broke up the church that they
couldn't pay me. Butchers and grocers de-
clined to lose more money by us. Wesley got
me a little work on a paper, and I went about
the small towns where I could, lecturing for
ten dollars and my traveling expenses. But
with it all we were often hungry, and should
have been oftener if Wesley hadn't been al-
ways sending things and getting us over there
under one pretext or another for a better din-
ner than he 'd give himself. But I said I
wouldn't make a long story of it. My little
Herman wore out his shoes, I 'd no money for

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 229

more ; it was wet weather, and he took cold.
It turned into diphtheria ; he died one week,
and his mother the next of the same disease.
Mitchel's sister came over and took care of her ;
we were so miserably poor then I caught her
bringing flour over in a bucket. When Emily-
was taken first, a little town near wanted me
for a lecture ; she told me to go. I had n't a
dollar in the world, sir, had to borrow my fare
of Wesley, so — I went. When I came back
she was dead."

He dropped his head on his folded arms.
Neither of the listeners found anything to say.

Witte rose and walked to the easel. He flung
one arm about the picture frame, and some-
times while he was speaking his fingers would
gently stroke the glass. *' Mitchel had this
done from a photograph," he said. "Mitchel
got me this place, too ; he 'd been trying for
it some time. Getting it a little earlier would
have made a difference. My wife's relations
took my little girl ; they offered to adopt
her if I 'd give her up entirely. My unfortu-
nate rehgious views made the condition neces-
sary, they said. It was the best thing for the
child, so I gave her up. Once I went to see
her. I saved up money enough to get to New
York state where they lived. I bought some
little things I thought would please her and

230 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

went straight to her aunt's house ; I said to
myself all the way that they surely would n't
have the cruelty to hinder me from kissing her
and talking to her a little while."

" Well, had they ? " said Berkely.

" Oh, I guess not ; they 'd no need, for they
were n't there ; they 'd gone to Europe to stay
four years. I came back here. Some time I
think I '11 end it all with a pistol bullet, but
where 's the use ? The will is indestructible,
in another form I should still live and suffer.
They are gone," he said with his hand on the
picture frame ; " I can never find them, and for
what else should I go ? There is but one way
to peace, to cease to desire, and then I shall
cease to exist."

He resumed his seat by the table, and lean-
ing his head on his hand turned toward Ethel
his hopeless, misty blue eyes. A sudden im-
pulse made her stretch out her hand, saying,
" I am so sorry for you ! " He took the hand
awkwardly, and at the same moment, unper-
ceived by any of them, the man whom he had
called Mitchel came across the grass plot before
the house and stood in the doorway.

" Thank you," said Witte, '' but tell me, can
I do better? You, sir, too, can I do better?
What better is there to do ? "

"I think you can do better," said Berkely.

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 231

" Don't you see one thing ? Granting this is
a bad world, still, toe have improved ! Nature
has somehow made a man, and he is better than
an ape. And don't you see if there is any
progress there is hope, and a world with hope
in it can't be the worst possible world, for a
world without hope would be worse still ! And
if there is such a thing as progress, doesn't
every man help himself in helping the rest ?
I 'm taking your own premises, only talking
Von Hartmann instead of his master. One
thing is sure, Mr. Witte, the only pleasures
which don't leave a sting behind them are
those which come from obeying what is conven-
tionally called our higher nature ; and no man
has ever listened to that unexplainable some-
thing in him which decides for righteousness
and been sorry, no matter what the decision
has cost him ! I take it there 's something sig-
nificant in that fact. Mr. Witte, you and I
are only two out of a multitude, and every
other one's happiness is as dear to him as ours
to us ; now, it is another significant fact that
the men who have, as you may say, flung their
own happiness into the pool with the other fel-
lows have been happier than those who have
— well, played a lone hand, caring for no one
else." (" I 'm getting my morals awfully mixed
with betting and euchre," thought Berkely ; "I

232 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

shall have to cut it short.") " Say you were
to try the first of these plans, and since your
own happiness is ruined give the best that 's in
you to the poor beggars almost as badly off as
yourself; don't you think your will would then
stand a better chance than it does here, alone
with yourself and your bitter memories, to get
into harmony with the universal Will ? That 's
the view I take of it as a pagan."

" And what do you say ? " said the hermit,
turning abruptly to Ethel. Her husband looked
at her also. She blushed a little, and being
exceedingly shy her voice was not quite steady
when she began to speak.

" I don't look at it as a pagan," she said,
" for I am a Christian " (the man in the door-
way took off his hat); "and I am a Christian
for the same reason that you are a pessimist —
because Christianity alone seems to me to offer
a reasonable explanation of the contradictions
and miseries of life. With another world this
world seems reasonable, without one it is just
a grim and cruel joke ; and Schopenhauer sees
that himself, for he tries to escape his own con-
clusions with the theories of art and his Bud-
dhist ideas of absorption into the universal.
Schopenhauer contradicts and dogmatizes worse
than the Bible his followers despise, yet he
cannot deny that there may be a will which is

o

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 233

in and for itself and conscious of itself — that
is God; be only can see no sign of any such
will in the universe. Between his dogmatism
and that of the Bible it seems to me easy
choosing, especially when you look at their
practical results. I am quite willing to accept
any proved conclusion of modern science, the
origin of the species if you will, but what dif-
ference does it make hotv God has worked ?
You only remove the difficulty a step farther
back; you don't solve it. Who created tbis
matter which contains 'the promise and po-
tency of life ' ? All that has been said of the
only true happiness I firmly believe, only —
has n't it been as well said in the Sermon on
the Mount as by the modern Altruists ? "

"Yes, ma'am, it has," said Mitchel, advan-
cing.

"This is my friend I told you of," said Witte.

Berkely bowed in silence, but Ethel held
out her hand. Probably Mitchel had not the
slightest idea of any especial grace in the ac-
tion; it is customary in the West to shake
hands on an introduction. He shook hands
with great cordiality, saying something Ethel
could not hear, for just then the boat whistle
blew.

" We must go," said Berkely hastily ; " but
think the whole thing over, and if you want

234 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

help to get away from here, this is my card.
I should be glad — you understand. Good-by."
He turned to Mitchel and said a few words in
a low tone, while Ethel said to Witte, " You
will think it over again, won't you ? " He did
not answer, unless it was an answer to silently
pick a pansy from the little bed of flowers near
the door and give it to her. The boat whistle
blew again and the bell began to ring.

" No, I 'm not going," called Mitchel.
" Good-by."

Berkely and his wife ran down the shore to
the boat. " What did you say to Mr. Mitchel,
John ? " said Ethel as they gained the deck.

" Told him he was the best sermon for the
Methodist Church I knew, and he said he only
' done what any Christian man would do for
another ; ' then I gave him something for any
charitable object he might have on hand, told
him he was as good a Christian as Marcus
Aurelius, and went off. But, Ethel, that fellow
has taught me a lesson ; I am afraid it is I who
am the bigoted prig, not he." Ethel gave him
a look which made the woman whose cousin
died in Kansas whisper to Mrs. Wattles: "Just
married, poor things ; they won't look that
way at each other long ! "

" And I think," said Berkely, with a little
screw of his lips as though he brought the words

SCHOPENHAUER ON LAKE PEPIN. 235

out hardly, — "I think the other poor beggar
taught me one too. My cynicism is tolerably
cheap, Ethel ; I 'ra not proud of it. See, we
are going."

The hermit and Mitchel were standing on
the shore, and both waved their hats as the boat
moved off. Looking back, they saw the west-
ern sky aflame and the western water opal in
the light, while under the darkening hills the
lonely hut stood grim and silent, making no
sign of life.

They sat on deck that night until the red
faded from the sky, the hills grew into shape-
less black masses, and they left Lake Pepin be-
hind them. Nor have they ever returned.

The hermit did not write to Berkely, but
Ethel thinks that she once had news of him.
It was in the September of that same year when
every newspaper was a death list because of
the pestilence which wasted the South. Among
the names of the dead at some obscure town in
Mississippi — so blotted in the type that she
could not read it rightly — was the name,
" Herman Witte, volunteer nurse," and beneath
the brief comment, "Mr. Witte is the nurse
who was taken sick the day after his arrival."

She handed the paper to Berkely. He lifted
his eyebrows, and being alone with his wife
gave a low whistle.

236 KNITTERS IN THE SUN,

" I believe it 's that Schopenhauer fellow,
Ethel," he said. " By Jove, if the unlucky-
beggar did n't manage to make a failure of his
death as well as his life ! "

o

"MA' BOWLIN'."

When the spring overflow comes, the plan-
tation of Clover Bend becomes a rustic Venice.
Boats glide over the cypress knees in the
swamps, where the cypresses and sycamores
look oddly short, and the thorn trees dip their
red spikes in the water. Usually the store
stands on a high bank, but then looking over
the edge you can see the green waves curdling
about the willow roots barely a step below.

Bud Quinn's house faces the plantation, the
store, the mill, and the score of houses ; but its
western windows are toward the river and the
sunset and the undulating line of cane which
limits the hill country from whence the Quinns
came. It is a house of the common Arkansas
type — two ill-built chimneys on the outside,
a beetling roof, and an open " gallery " in the
middle.

One morning, during a certain overflow sea-
son a good many years ago, Mrs. Quinn sat in
the gallery with her neighbor, Mrs. Brand, and
the Quinns' only child, Ma' Bowlin'. The
women of the " bottom-lands " are inclined to

238 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

be thin and sallow, while Mrs. Quinn's comely
plumpness of person was accompanied by a
particularly fair skin with roses and freckles.
There were dimples in her cheeks deep enough
to show when she was not smiling, and in spite
of hard and sad years her blue eyes sparkled
with a placid, kindly, half-humorous brightness.
She had been sewing on a child's frock of flow-
ered cotton, which she shook out, finally, say-
ing : " Thar, now. Ma' Bowlin' ; thar 's yo'
new gownd. Mus' be keerful ; not mud it ; not
muss it — mus' be keerful."

The child listened with a strained attention,
though the words were so simple. She was a
fair, pretty child, with curling flaxen hair and
dark blue eyes, in shape and color the copy of
her mother's, but quite lacking their expression,
having in its place a look at once wistful and
dazed.

Mrs. Quinn repeated the words until the ear-
nest little face brightened, and the curly head
was nodded vehemently. " Ma' Bowlin' knaw.
Ma' Bowlin' keerful. Putt on ! " cried the child.

" Stan' still, then."

Ma' Bowlin' assumed a rigid military atti-
tude, like a soldier at drill, while her mother
slipped the frock over her shoulders.

"Do look at the little trick!" said Mrs.
Brand.

''MA' BOWLIN':' 239

" I I'arned 'er thet ar," said Mrs. Quinn.
" She '11 Stan' twell I tell 'er ter quit, ef she
Stan's all day. She are the best chile ter mind.
W'y, I tole 'er onst ter be shore keep up the
fire w'ile I wuz ter the mill, an' ef ye please
she piled on cotton seed twell she nigh sot
the heouse afire — she did so ; the mantil war
a-scorchin'."

"Wa'al, a good, mindin' chile's a comfort,
even ef they don't jes make the wiggle," said
Mrs. Brand.

Mrs. Brand was a widow from Georgia, a
tall, spare, black-haired, bright-eyed woman, in
a very clean and stiff print gown ; much re-
spected by her neighbors because she openly
despised the State of Arkansas, and her husband
had owned slaves before the war. To be sure,
the slaves were only a decrepit old pair thrown
in as " boot " to a horse trade ; but Mrs. Brand
always spoke of them in a large plural as " We
all's niggers," and felt about their vanished
ownership much as a ruined noble might feel
about his patent of nobilit}^.

" Law me ! " she continued, with a sigh, feel-
ing for her snuff-stick, " ain't the ways er Prov-
idence onscrutable ? But I reckon ye set jes
much store on 'er, ef not a little mucher."

Mrs. Quinn's arms, which were about the
child, tightened into an almost savage clasp.

240 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

She crushed the fair curls against her cheek ;
but directly she laughed. " I reckon," said
she. " Thar now, honey, ye look right peart.
Ye kin — yes, ye kin run long ter the store an'
strike up with yo' paw an' show him yo' new
dress. Be shore ye don' mud it, an' ye show it
ter him. Yere 's yo' bunnit."

Both women looked after the pretty little
shape as it skipped along the narrow ridge of
land leading to the plantation store. The
widow compressed her lips over some unuttered
thought.

Mrs. Quinn answered it : " Bud '11 fotch 'er
'ome on his boss. He don' much 'er like some ;
but he means kin'. He never guvs 'er a ha'sh
word — never."

" Some folks say he never gives her any word
't all," said the widow, dryly. " But law ! some
folks wud bust if they cud n't talk ; it swells in
'em so, like pop-corn. Say, how ole is Ma'
Bowlin' ; risin' er eight ? "

" Eight this day. Ye had orter remember
the day."

" So I had," rejoined Mrs. Brand, with some
emotion. " Law me ! yo' man nigh busted my
do' down ; an' I was so phased I said right out :
' Bud Quinn, ain't ye ben lynched yet ? ' ' Yes,
I have,' says he, 'n' Sukey begged me off. An'
now she's took bad, an' for the Lord's sake

<'MA' BOWLIN\" 241

come an' hope 'er ! ' Wa'al, I had n't much
acquaintanceship with you all, but I knowed
what the matter was, an' I cud n't refuse. So,
if ye please, off we went — on that same wil'
colt you taken. An' the way that there critter
went r'arin' an' chargin' through the water —
ye 'member how high the overflow was that
year — my word ! I says, ' Mr. Quinn,' says I,
' if I kin have my ruthers, I 'd ruther walk.'
' Sukey done rode 'im,' says he ; 'he won' make
no blunders.' ' Then I ain't s'prised she 's
took,' says I. Say, Sukey, war n't ye skeered ?
Night 'n' all."

"I don' 'member like I war," said Sukey,
rising and beginning to lay the table in the
kitchen ; " onyhow he war all the hoss left, so
I had ter tek 'im."

The widow gave a moment to remembrance
and her snuff-stick before saying, " Sorter quar
they all never fund nuthin er Zed Ruffner 'cept
that ole hat er his'n all bloodied an' tromped
on."

" Bud 'lowed 't warn't Zed's hat 't all," said
Sukey, quickly ; " jes er old un the hoegs fit
over an' tromped up. Ye knaw how them wil'
hoegs fight. Zed Ruffner tole Bud he war
gwine ter light a shuck, kase he cud n't put up
no longer with his maw's cavin'. He 'lowed
ter go on the trade boat."

242 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" Yes, I 'member," said the widow, '' an' I
don' know w'y Bud's story war n't likely as
t' other, an' Zed done make tracks with the hun-
erd an' twenty dollars. I expect he 'lowed
't was his own money, bein' like 't was from
sellin' the hoss his own mother left 'im; an' my
son Frank says Zed taken it turrible hard for
to have his money used that a-way. But ayfter
they all fund the hat, an' knowed how Bud
done, ridin' off in the bottom with Zed, an'
comin' back by his lone, they was jes like a
pack er dogs ayfter a wil' hog — no reasonin'
in 'em, nuthin' cept bark."

" Oh, wa'al," said Mrs. Quinn, mildly, " I
don't guess 't wuz so quar, ayfter all. We-uns
had n't ben in Clover Bend mo'n two months ;
an' bein' frum the hill country, too, folkses war
sorter sot agin us, natchelly nuff. An' the wust
trick er all war we-uns hevin hed hard words
with the Ruffners. 'T war all 'long thet ar same
colt witch Mis' Ruffner she offered ter Bud, an'
Bud he taken up with it ; but somebody offered
more, an' she sole the colt ter them, an' w'en
Bud guv 'er his opinion, she war r'arin' an'
chargin' — wa'al I don' want fur ter say nuthin
agin onybody cole in their grave " —

" She wuz a venermous ole liar, cole or hot,"
interrupted the widow, calmly ; " an' hot nuff
she had orter be, ef all tales air true. Ye knaw

o

''MA' BOWLIN'." 243

she jes sicked them men on Bud. An' I reckon
ye wudn'tgot'im off ef she'd 'a ben reoun'.
No, ma'am. How did ye, onyhow ? I 've
wanted ter knaw fur a right smart, but I did
n't like fur ter quiz ye."

" I '11 tell ye, then," said Mrs. Quinn. " I wuz
comin' home, w'en I met up with Tennessee
Gale, an' she tole me how they 'd toted Bud off
ter the big bayou whar they fund the hat, ye
knaw, fur ter lynch him. So 't war powerful
dark, but I follered ayfter fas' I cud, an' I come
up on 'em w'en they 'd got the rope reoun' Bud's
neck. 'T wuz Ruffner tole 'em ter lemme talk.
I knawed 'im spite er his black kaliker mask.
So then I tole 'em how Bud come home that ar
night 'thout a scratch er a t'ar on 'im. I axed
they all ter s'arch 'im right thar, an' they done
it, an' 't war jes like I tole 'em. Then I put it
ter they all, cud a gre't big feller like Zed Ruff-
ner be killed up 'thout mekin' a fight fur 't ?
'Sides, the place war all tore up ; thar war a
turrible fight thar, shore, hoegs or humans.
An' how wud they all feel ef ayfter they bunged
Bud they 'd fin' Zed Ruffner safe an' soun' ? I
don't 'member on the words, but I begged hard,
an' bymeby Ruffner he stomps his foot an' he
says, sezee : ' Dad burn me ! I cay n't stan' no
mo', guilty or not guilty. Mis' Quinn, go 'long
'home ; ye ain't fit ter be out yere. Boys, le's

244 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

let 'er tek 'er man 'ome with 'er. We kin fin'
'im easy naff ef we want 'im.' An' that war
how it happened. Bud he 'lowed Zed wud
turn up, or leastways he write his paw. But
it 's eight years now, an' nary word nur sign.
We-uns hez stopped on yere, an' Bud he gits
good pay 's stockman, and Mr. Francis he won'
yere a word agin 'im ; but thet ar ole story don'
never let us 'lone. Folkses don' knaw fur shore
he done hit, but they don' knaw fur shore he
did n't done hit, an' they all don' want fur ter
hev no truck with us. The wust er 't are, Bud
he cayn't git reconciled no way, an' he studies
an' studies twell he are plum changed ; he ain't
the same man like — Law me ! ef thar ain't
Bud over yander, an' 'thout Ma' Bowlin' ! "

'' So 't is," said the widow, rising, " an' time
fur me ter be gwine, too."

" Ye come fur a fire ? " said Mrs. Quinn, in
hospitable sarcasm ; " w'y won't ye stop fur
dinner ? Res' yo bunnit on the bed and dror
up — do ! "

But the widow was not to be detained. It
almost seemed as though she were hurrying
away from her host, who had alighted, and was
now in his own doorway. He brushed past
her with a surly "Howdy?" and flung himself
into a seat before the table, where Mrs. Quinn
presently served him, smiling as cheerfully as

o

"MA' BOWLIIV." 245

though she expected a smile in return, which is
hardly likely, did she pay any attention to ex-
perience.

" Ye did n't meet up with Ma' Bowlin' no-
whar?" said she. "She war purportin' ter
show ye her new gownd. She looked so purty
in it, an' railly, Bud, Ma' Bowlin' hev
I'arned " —

" I wisht ye'd quit yo' everlastin' gabbin' '
'beout Ma' Bowlin'," the man broke in, sav-
agely. " Naw, I did n't meet up with 'er, nur
I did n't wanter. I 've had nuff er Ma' Bowlin'
a'ready this mornin'. Thet thar blamed fool
Tom Lardy darst ter tell me she war a jedg-
ment on me fur killin' Zed Ruffner, an' thar
war half a dozen t' other men reoun ter back 'im
up. Jes down yander en the stone 't war. I
don' guess I wanter hear ony mo' er Ma' Bow-
lin'."

He scowled at his food the picture of morose,
dejection ; yet only eight years ago Bud Quinn
had been the model young man of the hill coun-
try, whom fathers were accustomed to hold up
to their sons, and whose mop of red-brown curls,
sparkling eyes, and splendid muscles were not
more admired by the hill girls than his jovial
good-humor.

Sukey Quinn was used to " Bud's ways," but
even to her Bud seemed more wretched, and by

246 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

consequence more sullen, than usual. She sat
pondering, her pleasant countenance a little
saddened, until at last she said, rather timidly :
" Bud, I ben studyin'. I don' see no reason fur
ter b'lieve that ar Zed '11 turn up. Le 's quit
Clover Bend an' go back ter the hills, an' mek
a fresh start whar folkses don' knaw."

" An' them all be mekin' their brags on me ?
Ye talk like a fool ! "

Sukey did n't wince ; the phrase was only
one of those " ways " to which she was accus-
tomed. Discussions between the pair were apt
to end in that final retort by Bud, " Ye talk
like a fool ! " Not that Bud really thought
that she did talk foolishly ; on the contrary, he
had a great pride in her sense : it was simply
that he was at the end of his arguments, but
not of his combativeness. Sukey would listen
with unfeigned good temper, understanding
perfectly that he gave vent to his sorrows and
angers for the sake of being consoled and con-
tradicted at once, and bearing no more malice
for her snubbings than she would have borne
her baby had it kicked her in a fit of colic ; for
Sukey was a maternal soul, who treated her
husband all the more gently because his unde-
served ignominy had soured his temper. "Law
me ! men folkses they cayn't hoi' in," she said
to her sole confidant, the widow from Georgia ;

o

"MA' BOWLIN"." 247

"an' I are the onlies' critter Bud kin sass, kase
they all 's so sot agin 'im 't wun't tek mo'n a
word ter fetch a shoot."

But this admirable impersonal way of view-
ing things failed when it came to Ma' Bowlin' ;
and Sukey, so tolerant, so equable everywhere
else, could not endure a slighting word there.

Bud knew this as well as anybody, and a
kind of instinct had kept him silent about his
aversion to his child. At least he was never
openly unkind to her. But to-day he was ach-
ing with impotent anger and humiliation and
an intolerable sense of wrong. " An' 't war all
longer Z^er," he thought, meaning poor Ma'
Bowlin'. ^' I 'clare I hate 'er ! "

He jumped out of his chair and began walk-
ing the floor, talking furiously. " Hit 's no
good ; they all air down on me. I cayn't mek
a riffle. An', good Lord ! whut did I done? I
never hurted a human critter in my life, nur
wanted ter. Yit look how they run me down
like a wil' hoeg ! Looks like ter me thar war a
gre't black devil, too big fur me, a-harntin' me,
an' mekin' everything go bad fur me. An' I
knaw tvho, too. I tell ye, Sukey, 't are that
thar ole gypsy critter I would n't let camp in
we all's yard : she done it. Don' ye 'member
how she cussed me turrible hard ? An' I seen .
a black cat nex' day, an' that ar m.ght 't hap-
pened. Oh. dad burn her!"

2-4:8 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

He swung his arm out in a gesture of uncon-
trollable irritation. The wall was nearer than
he realized, and his fist struck the logs smartly.
Bud laughed.

" Bud, I are sorry fur ye," said his wife, very
gently.

There was a pity and tenderness in her voice
that soothed Bud in spite of himself, but he
was in a mood to resent comfort. He raved
on : " Oh ! I 'm done now ; I won' stan' no mo'
er they all's fool tricks. I tek my gun ter the
store ter-morrer. Let 'em sass me then I "

Sukey was too wise to argue further, since
Bud was quite capable of carrying out his
threat. She wondered whether he bad finished
his dinner, but was afraid to inquire, so she
began to remove the superfluous dishes — very
softly.

Bud remained glowering at the fire until he
was disturbed by her passing to put a plate on
the hearth. '' Whut ye doin' with them taters ? "
growled he.

" Wa'al, ye knaw. Ma' Bowlin' — she ain't
back yet."

" An' good luck fur we all if she never comes
back."

The cruel answer made the poor woman turn
pale and tremble; she was so hurt that the tears
would not come. Not lifting his sullen eyes,

"MA' BOW UN'." 249

Bud went on : " Ye much thet ar critter a heap ;
be ye so shore she are your^n? Hain't ye never
read en the Bible 'beout them thar folkses was
persessed er the devil? You knaw that boy —
Sukey, I swar w'en I see the critter grin-grin-
nin' ayfter me, I swar looks like ter me thet ar
same devil wants me 's got inter her ! Thar,
hit 's spoke now ; I cud n't never bide thet ar
chile — and now ye knaw w'y."

He would not look at his wife, though he could
hear her sob as he strode out of the house.

It miojht have been two hours before he came
back to find the rooms empty, and to see Sukey
running swiftly across the soaked cotton fields,
her sun -bonnet on her back, her hair blown
about a scared white face, and her skirts muddy
up to her waist.

''Bud," she screamed, "git the bosses!
Quick ! Ma' Bowlin's en the swamp ! "

" My ! ray ! my ! Sukey ! " exclaimed Bud,
peevishly, " whut ye mean traipsin' 'beout the
kentry so ondecent ? Look at yo' skeert ! "

Sukey had reached the porch by this time.
She could hardly catch her breath, but she
panted out : " Git the bosses ! She went ter
the store an' axed fur ye like I tole 'er, an'
they all tole 'er ye war gone ter Tobe Morrow's,
an' they 'low she sot out fur ter go ter Tobe's,
an' some way missed the turn. I ben ter Tobe's,

250 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

an' she ain't ben thar. Bud, I tole 'er ter meet
up with ye, an' she 's off en the swamp s'archin'
an' seekin' ye, an' she '11 go twell she drops I
O my Lord ! " She was so agitated that Bud
stared at her aghast, for a quieter, more easy-
going woman than Sukey Quinn never lived in
Arkansas. Sukey wringing her hands, Sukey
taking on, was a spectacle too bizarre for Bud
to realize. Why, never but once — and then
suddenly that once returned so vividly that Bud
seemed to watch the torch flames slant in the
wind, and felt that wicked jerk of the rope
against his throat.

"Don' ye tek on, Sukey," said he, gently;
"we '11 find 'er."

The father and mother rode together until
they came to the crossing of the two roads,
where Mrs. Quinn, who had n't spoken again,
drew rein to say : " Mabbe she mought er gone
by the river road. The Brown boys they wuz
down yander with their bateau ; she mought er
gone with them. Ye better go down ter the
big bayou."

" Whar — whar Zed — thar ? " gasped Bud,
flinching at a hideous fancy which flitted over
the surface of his mind, as a vulture might
brush a black wing past an eye. Was the devil
haunting him going to finish the job by tolling
his child out to mire and freeze and die just

*'MA' BOW LIN'." 251

where they all believed he had killed Zed Ruff-
ner ? Then who would n't allow he was guilty ?

" I '11 go," said he.

Off he galloped, splashing through the mud-
dy water. The road to the " big bayou" was
mostly under water. North and south, east
and west, the eye met the same horizontal lines,
now dark, now gleaming, dappled with flicker-
ing prints of leafage, etched with shadows of
trunks and limbs, and here and there lost in a
soft fur-like growth of young cane. Uncanny
shapes of roots and logs and cypress knees
showed duskily under the lustrous green water,
blending with the masses of shade which huge
live-oaks and cypresses flung on the surface,
until it was hard telling which was the reality
of form and which the semblance. An opal-
escent mist rose from the open spaces toward
the west, through which blazed a sea of gold.
The forest was in blossom. Sumptuous petals
of wild- plum flowers or dog-wood drifted among
the trees. Aloft was a twitter of birds and
bird happiness, drowned for a second by the
splash of hurrying hoofs, but instantly reassert-
ing itself and rippling keenly and blithely
through the wood.

Peril hid underfoot, and beauty was plain
aboTe ; but the horseman rushing by was not
conscious of either. There was an extraor-

252 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

dinary and terrible commotion in Bud Quinn's
mind ; using his own phrase, he was " powerful
riled up " ; and whether what he felt was grief,
or dread, or a ghastly relief, he could n't tell for
his life. Too simple for analysis, his emotions
took the image of pictures — his wife in the
swamp, the old crone cursing him, his neighbors
frowning, and the children running to get out
of his way. Then he was fooling with those
sweet-potatoes that he sent around one winter
because nobody else had any left. His throat
tightened and his cheeks burned, just as they
did when every bag and basket came back.
What a heap of those fool things he did, any-
how, and how bad he felt about them ! Visions
of Ma' Bowlin' came incessantly. She was a
baby ; a girl, when he wanted a boy ; she was a
toddling little thing who would n't learn to talk,
but used queer sounds of her own for a lan-
guage ; he had a notion that it was this which
first gave him his repugnance to the child. She
was a girl whose feeble mind was a judgment ;
then he slowly grew to hate her. He did n't
know whether he hated her now or not; he
only knew that if Sukey wanted her so bad, she
must have her. Presently another feeling stole
into the medley of his thoughts. As the air
grew chill with nightfall he began to consider
the child. "Say, ye devil," called Bud, who

"MA' BOW LIN':' 253

was as brave as he was superstitious, and made
no ado of defying the devil by name — " say,
it 's a mean trick er your'n toUin' thet ar little
critter off inter the swamp ! " He took sides
with Ma' Bowlin'. *' Dad burn ye, devil, I '11
find 'er an' fotch 'er home spiter ye ! " cried he.
Then he would shout, " Ma' Bowlin' — hit 's
paw ! I 'm a-comin', baby; don' ye be skeered."
But only the echo of his own voice returned to
him. He reached the big bayou. It was a
moment before he could collect himself enough
to look about, and his heart jumped when he
saw a floating log. The relief which he felt
surprised him. " A body 'd 'low I set store by
the little trick," he said, huskily ; ''but I'm
glad ye did n't do it yefe, anyhow, devil 1 "

His horse was worn out ; the stars were shin-
ing ; there was nothing for it but to go home.

As soon as he reached the brow of the little
hill which dips into the swamp beyond the mill,
he could see lights dancing through the fields
and hear shouts.

A horseman galloped toward him holding up
a torch. Mr. Francis it was, the resident owner
of the plantation.

" Come to the store. Bud," he called ; "we 're
all out."

Indeed, Mrs. Quinn had aroused the planta-
tion, and the men had been scouring the country

254 . KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

all the afternoon. One band had just come in,
and were sitting on horseback before the plat-
form of the store. Their leader sat sideways
on his saddle in an attitude of languid indiffer-
ence, yet he had ridden harder than any one.
He was a slightly built man, whose thin face
looked the thinner for a peaked black beard
and long straight silky black hair falling over
his flannel collar. His features were regular,
and his dark eyes had a very pleasant, mild ex-
pression.

" Reckon ye 'ain't fund no trail ? " he said,
listlessly, not looking at Bud, to whom the
other men also paid no attention.

"Naw, Mr. Ruffner," answered Bud.

" Mos' like she strayed off en the swamp.
We all bes' look up them hoeuses off in the
cane-brake. Thar 's coffee b'ilin' en the store,
an' Mis' Quinn are thar."

Bud dismounted and entered the store. A
portion of the long room had been railed off
for an " office." The store is the centre of
everything on a plantation. The office was
full of women, and a cloud of vapor came from
a boiler of coffee on the stove. The widow
from Georgia was ladling coffee, and Mrs.
Quinn holding the cups.

Just then a little commotion outside caused
all the other women to run out, giving Bud an

o

''MA' B0WLIN\" 255

opportunity to approach his wife. Her face
was so strange and rigid that he was fright-
ened, and her eyes traveled over his mud-
splashed figure in hopeless, stern inquiry.

" Ye need n't tell me," said she, " ye did n't
fin' nuthin'. I reckon yo' glad. Ye hated 'er ;
ye wanted 'er outen yo' road, an' ye got yo'
wan tin'. But don' come nigh me ; fur ef my
baby 's los', I '11 never live longer ye no mo',
Bud Quinn — never ! "

" Oh, hush ! " said the widow from Georgia,
good-humoredly ; '' thet ain't no tallc fur 'tween
man an' wife ! Ain't the chile his'n well 's
yuur'n? G'way, Bud; she don' knaw rightly
whut she 's sayin'."

With that she pushed Bud — dumb as a bird
caught up in a whirlwind — out into the main
room of the store,

" Wy are Sukey gone back on me ? " were
the first words he could stammer.

"I reckon she's wored out," answered the
widow, grimly. " Look-a-here, Bud Quinn ; I
sorter taken yo' side jes now, but 't ain't kase I
got ony gre't opinion of ye, for I 'ain't " —

" Yo' like they all ; ye 'low " —

"I don' 'low ye hurted Zed Ruffner, if ye
mean that. No, sir ; I got a low down 'pinion
of ye jes kase ye treat yo' wife so mean — an'
thet thar po' little trick she 's so petted on, po'

256 KNITTERS IN TEE SUN.

little innercent, smilin', mindin' critter, always
cravin' fur to please ye ! She ain't to blame
fur not havin' good sense ; I reckon she 'd take
sense if she cud! But ye had a grudge agin
'er kase she was throwed up at ye fur a jedg-
ment. An' I kin tell ye, Bud Quinn, ye made
folks dead sho' she was a jedgment jes by the
way ye treated 'er ! Ye 've grieved Sukey all
that chile's life treatin' 'er so. Not a kin' word
nur look fur her ; an' ye ben so busy studyin*
on yo' troubles an' hatin' t' other folks fur mis-
jedgin' ye, that ye never taken no thought er
her'n ! Laws ! Bud Quinn, d' ye expect she
liked bein' looked down on? Or liked fur to
have Ma' Bowlin half cracked? Or liked fur
to have you glumin' roun' nur never muchin'
yo' own chile ? I reckon Sukey's human, an
ye 've got ter the eend er 'er long-sufferin' " —

"Wa'al, Mis' Brand," Bud interrupted dog-
gedly, " whutsumever I done, jawin' me won't
fin' Ma' Bowlin'. I got ter git my tother boss
an' go. Ye tell Sukey I '11 find Ma' Bowlin'
— someways I "

"Ye Je^fer," retorted the unabashed widow,
" an' the less truck ye try ter have with Sukey
befo' then, the mo' she '11 like ye."

Bud walked away without another word.
Mr. Francis gave him a torch, and he rode off
on his fresh horse. Nobody else spoke to him
or offered him any help.

"MA' BOWLIN\" 257

This time he chose the high-road. For some
distance it was above water ; but, finally, he
came to a depression in the ground which the
overflow had turned into a shallow river, filled
with leaves and sticks and floating logs, and all
the debris of the swamp. By stepping from
log to log it was just possible for a footman to
cross to the firm land beyond.

" Ma' Bowlin' war powerful spry," thought
Bud ; " hopped like a 'coon." He had a feel-
ing of admiration for the child's agility.
" Mought be a show er findin' a trail ef 't war
daylight," he muttered ; " cayn't do much
with a torch." But he held it high, and sud-
denly he uttered a loud exclamation. On the
moss of one of the logs was a tiny footprint.
In spite of the darkness he had found the trail.
To pursue it was not so difficult : here a freshly
broken twig where the little fingers had caught,
there a patch of moss as though a foot had
slipped, oak limbs swayed out of place, or logs
wet by a fresh immersion beneath a passing
weight, told the story of the journey plainly
enough for a woodman like Bud.

But all at once the trail ceased. Let him
ride in what direction he might, he could not
find a sign. The print of fingers on the low
branch of a pawpaw-tree showed that so far
the little traveler must have come ; but there

258 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

was the end. While Bud hesitated, a great
log drifted slowly and majestically through the
circle of light cast by his torch out into the for-
est darkness.

" Mought er skipped on a log like thet,"
Bud mused, " an' the log sailed off ; but, God
A'mighty, witch way ? "

He rode aimlessly about the swamp, shout-
ing until he was hoarse : " Ma' Bowlin' ! Ma'
Bowlin' ! Paw 's comin' ! Don't be skeered,
honey ! Who-op ! Whoo-op ! "

He could hardly remember the time when
he had used such a caressing word to the child ;
but now, somehow the image of the little
" wanting," trustful thing hunting for him in
the swamp affected him strangely. He remem-
bered that there had been times when his heart
had turned to the child and he had hardened
it again. One scene in particular kept recur-
ring to him. He had gone to a Fourth of July
celebration, and the people were sitting in
groups about the grass, eating their luncheon.
Lum Shinault was leaning against a tree near
Bud, and his little daughter, hardly two years
old, toddled up to him, stretching out her arms
and crying, *'Up ! up ! " Lum snatched her up
and marched along with her, laughing and sing-
ing. At this Ma' Bowlin', who was not quite
six years old, but just beginning to talk, pulled

o

''MA' BOWLiJsr." 259

at Bud's trousers. *' Up ! up ! " she stammered,
in exactly the other child's tone. It made some
of the children titter, and Bud was furious.
He pushed the little thing away. He remem-
bered how the smiling little face had fallen,
and how she had run to hide it against her
mother's arm. Sukey had lifted her up, heavy
as she was. " Maw '11 tote ye a piece, honey."
Bud could hear the words, with the slight
tremor in them, so distinctly that he started.
" Lord, how cud I ben so mean ? " he groaned.
'* Thet blamed critter war right. Poor Sukey !
An she war alius seekin', quiet like, ter mek
the little trick set store by me ! "

The night wore on, chillier and darker every
hour. And somehow, as Bud Quinn's hopes
sank lower and lower, and his torch began to
flare, and his horse to stumble with fatigue,
his mind went back to his simple and tender
thoughts in the time before Ma' Bowlin' was
born, and the lost child was his own little baby
again.

"Lord, but I hate ter leave ye, honey," he
cried, " but Nig cajmt skeercely walk. I '11
come back quick 's I kin."

The morning was dawning before he reached
the store. There is always something dispirit-
ing about the first gray dawn, and the forlorn-
ness of a cotton plantation when the mill has

260 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

black unsightly wooden walls, showing gaps,
and the whitewash is peeling off the sides of
the store, and a fog hangs over the drowned
lands, was in this case increased by half a dozen
muddy horses dropping their necks below the
horns of their saddles by the store fence. All
night the search had gone on with no result.
Ruffner was just in, bringing no news except
that every cabin within ten miles had been
visited in vain. He told Bud that Sukey was
out searching. Three or four men had come
out on the platform. They put their hands in
their pockets, and looked at Bud curiously as
he almost tumbled off his horse. He staggered
and fell, in fact, when he tried to walk. They
did not take their hands out of their pockets,
and he got up painfully and leaned against a
post. Lnm Shinault, coming to the door, saw
him, and went back, to reappear directly with
a steaming cup of coffee and a piece of corn
bread.

" Ye hev ter eat 'em," he said. " I don'
guess yo' much better off 'n yo' boss. Say, got
any other un 'cept the un Mis' Quinn on ? "

"Naw," said Bud. "I'll hev ter try a ba-
teau."

" Ye kin hev my gray if ye like," said Lum.

Tears started to the broken man's eyes.

" I tell ye thet ar feller feels 5ac?," Lum told

o

''MA' BOWLIN'r 261

his wife, later. "Needn't tell me he don't.
He went off like a shot the minnit he got his
hoss ; an' he done ben out sence yistiddy
ev'nin'."

All day the search continued. Late in the
afternoon, however, the worn-out searchers be-
gan to come into the store. Last of all, Bud
Quinn rode up on Shinault's horse. Mrs.
Quinn was talking to Ruffner on the platform.
Ruffner said, " Howdy ? naw, we ain't fund
'er yit.'^ And another man led his own horse
away to make room for Bud ; but Bud heard
and saw nothing. He only looked miserably
at his wife, and she turned away.

Lum Shinault brought a horse to Bud, say-
ing, kindly : " Yere 's yo' Nig ; he are rested
by this, an' I 've fed 'im good. I knowed ye
cud n't res' twell ye knowed sartin. But ye
mus' eat fust ; an' Mis' Brand 's fotchin' ye
suthin'."

"I are 'bleeged ter ye, Lum," said Bud al-
most sobbing. He took what the widow had
brought, while she looked on grimly. Then
he said : "Mis' Brand, I are goin'. Will ye
kin'ly tell Sukey how she caynt want fur ter
fin' Ma' Bowlin' mo'n me, nur be mo' wishtful
ter be good ter 'er ayfterwuds ? "

"All right," said the widow; "now ye talk.
Bud Quinn. Pity ye did n't talk that a-way
befo' ; but better late nur never."

262 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Bud was off before she finished. She could
see hiin slip about in the saddle ; in truth, he
felt dizzy and weak, and, what is worse, hope-
less.

Hardly a rod beyond the mill he was joined by
Ruffner, who remarked, carelessly, " Mought 's
well travel "long tergether, goin' same way."

'> Ef ye wanter," said Bud. " I 'm goin' in
the bottom."

They rode along, Ruffner furtively watching
Bud, until finally the elder man spoke with the
directness of primitive natures and strong ex-
citement : —

" Whut 's come ter ye. Bud Quinn ? Ye
seem all broke up 'beout this yere losin' yo'
little trick ; yit ye did n't useter set no gre't
store by 'er — least, looked like " —

" I knaw," answered Bud, lifting his heavy
eyes, too numb, himself, with weariness and
misery to be surprised, — "I knaw ; an' 't ar
curi's ter me too. I did nt set no store by
'er w'en I had 'er. I taken a gredge agin 'er
kase she had n't got no good sense, an' you
all throwed it up ter me fur a jedgment. An'
knawin' how I had n't done a thing ter hurt
Zed, it looked like cl'ar agin right an' natur'
fur the Lord ter pester me that a-way ; so some-
ways I taken the notion 't war the devil, an'
thet he got inter Ma' Bowlin', an' I mos'

''MA' BOWLIN\" 263

cud n't b'ar the sight er that pore little crit-
ter. But the day she got lost kase er tryin' ter
meet up with me, I 'lowed mabbe he tolled 'er
off, an' I sorter felt bad fur 'er ; an' — an' w'en
I seen them little tracks er her'n, some ways
all them mean feelin's I got they jes broked
off short insider me like a string mought snap.
They done so. An' I wanted thet chile bader 'n
I ever wanted anything."

" Law me ! " said Ruffner, quite puzzled.
"But say. Bud, ef ye want 'er so bad's all thet,
ye war n't wanter mad the Lord by lyin', kase
He are yo' on'y show now. Bud Quinn, did
ye hurt my boy?" He had pushed his face
close to Bud's, and his mild eyes were glowing
like live coals.

"Naw, Mr. Ruffner," answered Bud, quietly,
" I never tetched a ha'r er 'is head ! '*

Ruffner kept up his eager and almost fierce
scrutiny for a moment ; then he drew a long
gasping sigh, crying, " Blame my skin ef I don'
b'lieve ye ! I 've 'lowed, fur a right smart, we
all used ye mighty rough."

" 'T ain't no differ," said Bud, dully. Noth-
ing mattered now, the poor fellow thought ;
Ma' Bowlin' was dead, and Sukey hated him.

Ruffner whistled slowly and dolefully; that
was his way of expressing sympathy ; but the
whistle died on his lips, for Bud smote his
shoulder, then pointed toward the trees.

264 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" Look a-thar ! " whispered Bud, witli a
ghastly face and dilating eyeballs : " Oh, Lord
A'mighty ! thar 's her — an' him ! "

Ruffner saw a boat leisurely propelled by a
long pole approaching from the river side ; a
black-haired young man in the bow with the
pole, a fair-haired little girl in the stern. The
little girl jumped up, and at the same instant
a shower of water from light-flying heels blind-
ed the young man.

" Paw ! paw ! " screamed the little girl ;
" maw tole Ma' Bowlin' — meet up — paw ! "

Bud had her in his arms now; he was pat-
ting her shoulder, and stroking her hair with a
trembling hand. Her face looked like an an-
gel's to him in its cloud of shining hair; her
eyes sparkled, her cheeks were red, but there
was something else which in the intense emo-
tion of the moment Bud dimly perceived — the
familiar dazed look was gone. How the blur
came over that innocent soul, why it went, are
alike mysteries. The struggle for life wherein,
amid anguish and darkness, the poor baby in-
tellect somehow went astray, and the struggle
for life wherein it groped its way back to light,
both are the secrets of the swamp, their wit-
ness ; but however obscurely, none the less
surely, the dormant soul had awakened and
claimed its rights, and Ma' Bowlin' had ceased
to be the baby, forever.

"MA' BOW LIN \" 265

Meanwhile, if possible, the other actors in
the scene were equally agitated. The old man
choked, and the young man exclaimed, huskily,
" Paw ! ye ain't dead, then ? "

" Waal, I don't guess I be," said Ruffner,
struggling after his old dry tone, though his
voice shook ; " did ye 'low I war ? "

" I read it in a Walnut Ridge paper only a
month ayfter I went: 'The late Mr. William
Ruffner er Clover Bend ' — an' a right smart
abeout ye"' —

" Thet thar war yo' Uncle Raker, boy. He
war on a visit like, an' died ; an' that ar blamed
galoot in Walnut Ridge got 'im sorter mixed
up with me, ye un'erstan' ; but yo' maw, she
are gone, boy, shore, died up an' burried."

" I kin b'ar hit," said Zed Ruffner ; " but I
ivas right riled up 'beout you^ paw. ' Lef all
his property to his widder,' says the paper ;
thet ar riled me too. Says I, ye wun't see me
very soon to Clover Bend — I was allers sorter
ashy, ye know. Fur a fact, ye would n't 'a
seen me now ef 't had n't a-ben fur this yere
little trick. I war on a trade boat near New-
port, an' some fellers I know taken me off fur
a night ter thar camp. They was stavers.
Hit 's 'way off in the swamp, twelve mile frum
here ; an' I was up befo' sun up, aimin' ter
start back fur the river, w'en I heard the fun-

266 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

niest sound, suthin' like a kid, ' Maw ! maw ! '
Natcbelly I listened, an' byme-by I follered
ayfter it, an' whut shud I come on but a gre'fc
big log, an' this here little critter settin' on 't,
hol'in on by her two hands to a sorter limb
growin' on the log, an' shore's ye live, with
her gownd slung reoun' her neck in a bundle.
Lord knows how fur thet ar log had come, or
whut sorter travelin' it made, but thar war n't
a speck or a spot on thet ar gownd. 'S all I
cud do ter git 'er ter lemme pack it up in a
bundle, kase she wud n't put 't on nohow ;
said the bateau was wet. So we warmed 'er
an' fed 'er, an' I taken her 'er long seekin' fur
her kin ; an' — wa'al, that 's w'y I 'm yere I "

Just as the big clock in the store struck the
last stroke of six, Sukey Quinn, who had been
cowering on the platform steps, lifted her head
and put her hand to her ear. Then everybody
heard it, the long peal of a horn. The widow
from Georgia ran quickly up to Sukey and
threw her arm about her shoulders. For a
second the people held their breath. It had
been arranged that whoever found the lost
child should give the signal by blowing his
horn, once if the searchers came too late, three
times if the child should be alive. Would the
horn blow again?

o

"MA' BOW UN':' 267

" It are Bud's born ! " sobbed Sukey. " He 'd
never blow fur oust ! Hark ! Thar 't goes
agin! Three times! An' me wud n't hev no
truck with 'im ; but he set store by Ma' Bow-
lin' all the time."

Horn after horn caught up the signal joy-
fully, and when the legitimate blowing was
over, two enterprising boys exhausted them-
selves on a venerable horn which was so
cracked that no one would take it. In an in-
credibly short time every soul within hearing
distance, not to mention a herd of cattle and
a large number of swine, had run to the store,
and when at last the two horses' heads ap-
peared above the hill, and the crowd could see
a little pink sun-bonnet against Bud Quinn's
brown jean, an immense clamor rolled out, the
men tearing their throats with shouting, the
women sobbing aloud, the children yelling their
shrillest, cattle bellowing, and pigs squealing.

But there came a hush as Bud dismounted,
and, carrying Ma' Bowlin', walked up to his
wife, and silently put the child in her arms.

" Oh, Bud ! " sobbed she, and before she
looked at Ma' Bowlin' she clung to him and
kissed him.

" It are all right, all right, Sukey," he kept
repeating, while the tears ran down his tanned
cheeks ; " don' take on, honey."

268 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" Laws ! '* sniffed the widow from Georgia,
flapping some drops off her own face with the
corner of her apron, " ef the critter ain't in her
petticuts ! "

Then came Ma' Bowhn's proud moment.
She had her bundle tight clasped in her little
arms, and now she undid it, displaying the
brilliant frock. " Maw tole Ma' Bowlin',"
she cried, '' nawnaw mud hit, nawnaw muss
hit ; Ma' Bowlin' new gownd ! "

" An' ef 't had n't a-ben fur the new gownd,
sis," said the widow, " I reckon ye 'd 'a never
ben los' ! "

" Nur fetched back Zed," Ruffner interjec-
ted, amid a general bewilderment.

" The Lord bless the gownd, then," said Bud
Quinn ; " an' the baby too ! "

" Amen ! " said William Ruffner.

HALF A CURSE.

On a certain April day, in the year 1862,
the stage-coach was waiting at the plaza-corner
of the oldest Floridian town. At that time
the plaza was merely an unkempt common,
where cows and pigs might ramble at will, tak-
ing their siestas in the ruined old market-house,
or sunning themselves at the base of the stubbed
pyramid erected by the last Spanish rulers.
Where now the smart little shops elbow the
grim old cathedral, then high coquina walls,
over which waved orange and palmetto-trees,
joined the ancient house-fronts, and hanging
balconies cast a grateful shade on the sand be-
low. Then as now the wharf and the sea-wall
bounded the eastern side, and the water glit-
tered behind a little flock of sails. If one
stepped on the sea-wall he could see the hated
Yankee flag flying over the old fort, and a blue-
coated officer was watching the crowd about
the coach. High above the hats and bonnets
towered a gay turban, and a black cheek pressed
tenderly against the white cheek of a child,
while tears ran unrestrained down both faces

270 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

alike. The child sobbed aloud ; but the woman,
not uttering a sound, only strained the small
body closer, and looked through her tears at
the young gentlewoman beside her. She was
a beautiful creature — Johnny Tindall, the
young Federal captain, thought — so slender,
graceful, and high-bred looking, with such a
touching sweetness of expression, and yet such
a tropical fire in those brilliant, almond-shaped,
dark eyes. He caught her last words : " Yes,
it is hard, hard ; but what should I do without
you to take care of the place ? I know I shall
find you here, whatever happens."

" Yes, Miss Nannie," was the answer ; '' I
keep de place good 's I kin, an' yo sholy fin' me
yere waitin'."

" All aboard ! " shouted the driver.

The parting came, and was over ; Johnny
had the impression that all three cried at once.

" What is the matter? " said he.

He spoke to his next neighbor ; but another
roan — a stout florid man in civilian's dress,
though wearing a military cap — replied ; " Oh,
jess some rebs leavin' ruther'n swaller the
oath."

" Such a trifle would n't send you awa}'-,
would it, Baldwin ? " said Johnny, glancing
with undisguised contempt at the speaker, a
sutler in his own regiment.

o

HALF A CURSE. 271

" Of course I 'd take the oath, captain ; I
ain't a Southerner."

** I thought you came from South Carohna."

I was only there for a while," said Baldwin,
sullenly; but directly, with a more cheerful
air, he added: "Did ye notice them people?
That there lady 's Mrs.'Legree. Her pa was a
Charleston big-bug, and she married Renny
Legiee. He 's off in the rebel army. They 've
a mighty fine place here. Say, did you ever
see a mortal critter tali's that there colored
woman ? "

" I want to see her," said Johnny, walking
off ; but Venus was gone.

Afterward he learned something of her his-
tory. Venus Clinch was born a slave on the
Clinch plantation in South Carolina. She
claimed to have Indian blood in her veins, which
is quite possible, since her father was one of
the "negro allies" of the Seminoles, captured
durino" the Florida wars. Venus was a famous
cook; and on Miss Nannie Clinch's marriage,
she was one of the wedding-gifts. With her
went Ambrose, her husband, a handsome, amia-
ble, indolent, utterly worthless mulatto. It
was supposed that Venus might want her hus-
band's company. She, however, was a most
philosophical spouse. "Now, ole marse," said
she, kindly, " don' ye poturb yoseff 'bout Am-

272 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

bros'. I ain't no-ways 'tickler 'bout dat ar nig-
ger. Ef you all kin git 'im trowed in wid de
bosses, I says, fotch 'im 'long ; but he ain't
wuth no buy in' no ticket fo', dat 's sho ! "

Nevertheless Ambrose came, and often
enough Venus regretted her qualified assent.

" Mazin' how come I taken up wid dat tri-
flin', ornery, yaller nigger," she would say.
'' Nebber done a stroke fo' me, nebber guv me
nuffin' — 'cept de measles, an' dem I wan't
seekin'. Dese yere yaller niggers dey 's no na-
tion ; got de good er none, an' bad er all. Am-
bros' am bad down to he heel."

Venus never had but one child, and it died
in infancy. After that her sore heart's entire
and lavish devotion was given to Nannie Clinch.
She was a faithful servant to all the Clinches,
but she worshiped " Miss Nannie."

All these particulars gradually came to John-
ny, who very soon made Venus's acquaintance.

The beginning was his noticing her as she
walked daily on the beach before the barracks ;
indeed, no one could help noticing a figure built
on such an enormous scale. Besides, there was
a certain massive dignity, and even symmetry,
about her form, and her features, Indian rather
than negro, were brightened by a smile of true
African good -humor. Her costume recalled
the best days of the vanished regime. Her gay

o

HALF A CURSE. 273

turban and her white apron were always fresh
from the iron ; and on her head was poised a
great basket filled with enticing tropical sweet-
meats, the secrets of which Aunt Venus had
guarded for years.

When neither vending her wares nor making
them, she toiled in the Legare garden. Mean-
while, Ambrose led a life of elegant leisure as
skipper of a sail-boat so leaky and unruly that
only a suicide could care to hire it. A little
labor would have made a tidy sloop out of this
relic of the Legares, but Ambrose always said :
"Dar's udder t'ings en life dan toilin' fo'
money ! "

Johnny was Venus's best customer. Nothing
pleased the faithful creature more than to talk
of her mistress.

" I 'members," said she, " de ve'y fustis time
I sot heyes on Miss Nannie, to know 'er. Ye
muss know, sah, dat I wuz bawn on de planta-
tion an' raised dar twel I 'se risin' er sixteen,
w'en my mammy she done die up. She wuz a
witch'ooman, my mammy wuz ; an' one er
witchin's, 'e done got twurn' roun', some'ow,
an' hit kill' 'er dead. De obberseer, he 'lowed
't wuz kase 't wuz fallin' wedder, an' she
cotch cold en de wet. But I knows 't wuz de
witchin' ! So, den, dey sen' me ter Chawlston,
an' de cook she I'arn me ter cook, an' spat me

274 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

good wh'n she 's mad ; an' onct she guy me a
nios' outrigeous lick wid a stick er fat wood, an'
runned a splenter enter my awm. So, den, I
wuz pickin' at it outside, an' a grievin' fo'
my mammy — dat nebber taken nufiin' wuss'n
a sbengle to me — an' a bellerin' ve'y sorf like,
dat Aunt Phoebe don' heah my lammertations,
an' give me mo' ter lammertate fo', w'en in
runs my Miss Nannie. De angil looks er dat
cbile in 'er sweet li'le w'ite frock, an' de li'le
black slippers, an' de big blue sash. An', ef ye
please, she taken pity on me an' guy me a big
chunk er cake, an' calls her paa ter cut out de
splenter. She did so. He wuz a ye'y kin'
man, ole marse ; an' so wuz ole miss, too, dat's
cole an' dead now, po' t'ing ! "

It was curious what a sense of intimacy
Johnny came to feel in this unseen rebel fam-
ily. He knew all about "ole marse" and "ole
miss," who had been an invalid (" ole marse
kep' 'er a invaleed fo' twenty yeahs "), and
Marse Tim, and Marse Bertie.

Johnny's cheeks were rosy, and he had a
chubby little figure ; but there was a streak of
romance in his kind heart — why, indeed, should
only the thin be romantic? — and it pleased
him to be indirectly serving these absent ene-
mies through Venus. She always received him
in the garden. " I wud like mazin' ter ax ye

HALF A CURSE. 275

in, marse cap'n, but I knows Miss Nannie's
'pinyuns, an' I cayn't ; but de kitchen, dat
'long ter me, an' you is right welcome dar,
alius. I ain't none er yo' cooks dat 's skeered
fp' hab folks see dar cookin'."

Johnny's eyes twinkled. North, his chubby
form was hailed with delight by all the mothers
of his acquaintance — for Johnny had great
possessions. South, it appeared, he might be
glad to visit the kitchen. He did visit the
kitchen, and was content to view the mansion
from the garden. Yenus regarded the house
with awe, and even to Johnny's eyes it looked
imposing — a Southern house of the last gener-
ation, built in fond imitation of a South Caro-
lina home, with its lofty Doric portico, and the
galleries on the sides, which the Cherokee rose
changed into bowers. But it was the garden
which was Johnny's paradise. Here, orange-
trees, magnolias, and myrtles kept an unchang-
ing verdure through the season, palmettoes lined
the wide avenue, and strangely cut leaves of
the tropics — fig, pomegranate, date-palm —
mingled with more familiar foliage ; while
everywhere the tree-limbs dripped with Spanish
moss. A sumptuous color and glow dazzled
the Northern eye ; trumpet flowers swinging
their flames against the walls, oleanders taller
than pear-trees, the gold of jasmine and the

276 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

dead-white of orange-blossoms relieved against
the weird haze of the dripping trees. Johnny
used to be reminded of the Garden of Eden.
He would tell himself that the poignant odors
which filled the air had intoxicated him.

Certainly he thought more than was good for
him of the beautiful mistress of the place.

So, during a few weeks he walked in the
garden, and Venus toiled hopefully, and Am-
brose was quite as hopeful though he did not
toil at all. Then, one fine morning. Captain
Tindall's regiment marched away.

He went in the autumn ; and in the following
summer he was sent back to the town oq some
military business. As soon as he could he went
to see Venus. There was a dismal change in
the place. The gate was gone, and the fence
looked as though a regiment had charged down
on it. Within, it was worse. The flower-beds
were trampled out of shape, the scuppernong-
vines draggled on the ground, as if torn down
by impatient hands ; and limbs had been
wrenched off the orange-trees, or left hanging
at forlorn right angles by strips of bark. The
house, with its shattered windows, and the
weeds growing over its broad steps, seemed
mutely lamenting over the desolation. Yet a
wisp of smoke crept out of the huge coquina
chimney of the kitchen — token that Venus

HALF A CURSE. 217

must still be living there. But in vain Johnny
hunted and shouted, and, at last, in despair he
took his way back to the city gates. He passed
along the narrow streets, vaguely depressed by
what he had seen, until he was stopped by a
crowd before the building which still bears the
title of " The Governor's Palace."

In the day of Spain the palace doubtless cut
a becoming and princely figure, with its tower
and balconies and portico, and the famous gar-
den, wherein was planted every kind of tree on
earth (according to the old chronicler) ; to-day,
shorn of all these, it is a commonplace post-
office, but when Johnny saw it a shabby vestige
of pomp remained in the crumbling ornamenta-
tion of the facade and the Spanish corridor of
arches opposite that row of pride-of-India trees,
not one of which remains. The building was
used as a court-house by the United States
Government during the war ; and it was so used
at this time. A crowd of men overflowed the
corridor into the street.

The people were Minorcans for the most part,
dark, thin, and dejected looking ; but there was
a sprinkling of black faces and blue coats, and
a little bandying of jokes. Johnny asked a
man what was going on. He was a Minorcan ;
he answered, sullenly : " Dey refuge 'low us
pay tax, so den dey sell our Ian', now."

278 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

''Listen," called a soldier, nearer the door,
" there 's a circus in there. An old colored
woman 's bidding against Baldy. She goes him
ten cents better every time, and he's hoppin'
mad ! Too bad ! He 's got it."

A burst of lausjhter rolled out of the court-
room.

" What's the joke? " called another soldier.

" Auntie wants Uncle Sam to lend her a few
hundred to beat Baldy, and to take it out in
jam ! "

Johnny wedged himself through the men to
where Venus stood, her gay turban towering
above all the heads and her black profile cut
against the yellow stucco pillar like a bas-relief
of anguish.

She turned a piteous gaze down to Johnny's
kind eyes.

" You 'se done come too late, marse cap'n,"
she said; "dey taken Miss Xannie's place 'way.
I 'se offer dem all de money fum de po'serves,
but dey won' hab it."

Johnny got her out of the court-room into
the plaza opposite, where he made her sit down.

"Now tell me what this all means," said he.

" Dey done take hit, sah. Fust dey steal all
de gyardin truck an' de chickins, an' dey 'tice
'way po' ol' Strawberry, de onlies' cow we all
hab leff " —

HALF A CURSE. 279

" Why did n't you complain? "

"I done de bes' I knowed, sah. I cotcli one
t'ief an' I take my slipper to 'im de same like
his own mudder ; an' den I tote 'im to de cun-
nel by de collar. Dey done punish 'im. But
I cud n't cotch no mo' ; dey wuz too spry. Den
dey putt de wah-tax on, an' I done went prompt
fo' ter pay, wid de change e'zact ; but de boss,
he say Miss Nannie am a rebil, an' de loil peo-
ples dey 's de onlies' people kin pay taxes ; an'
he refuge " —

" But he had n't any right to refuse ! "

" Dunno. Dat am w'at he done. Dey done
Mr. Dee Medeecis de same way; dey twurn 'im
hout on de pa'metto scrub kase he hab two sons
wid de 'federates, an' den dey sole 'im up.
Dat t'ief, BaFwin, he git de 'ous. 'Spec' he
git de town, d'rectly. Well."

Her head sank hopelessly on her breast ; but
in a moment she looked up ; she even made
an effort at the conversation which her notions
of politeness demanded. " You 's lookin' right
peart, sah. I hopes you is gittin' on smart.
I 'se made some dem fig po'serbs an' guavas fo'
ye, sah, an' ef ye cay n't tote 'em wid ye, whar
will I sen' dem kase I won' hab no mo' —
place."

A kind of dry sob shook her frame, though
it brought no tears. Her woeful patience af-

280 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

fected Johnny so that the good fellow could n't
sleep that night. He did what he could — pro-
tested against the sale as illegal, and even of-
fered Baldwin twice his purchase-money for the
title-deeds.

" Ye cayn't buy it of me," said Baldwin,
grinning in a very irritating fashion. Thanks
to Johnny, he was no longer in the army, and
he let his old captain understand that he re-
membered.

" I 'm hanged but I '11 get the house in spite
of you, you scoundrelly cad," vowed Johnny at
last. At which Baldwin only grinned again.

For the present, however, nothing could be
done. Johnny helped Venus move Mrs. Le-
gare's property into the house of a Minorcan,
the same De' Medici whose wrongs had been
recited by Venus. Venus herself worked like
a horse, and never spoke a superfluous word.
She showed a curious patience over all the de-
lays and annoyances of such a flitting ; even
Ambrose did not get a hard word. He lent his
amiable countenance to the occasion, advising,
directing, criticising, everything but working ;
and the next morning he presented himself to
John-ny very smartly dressed, with a traveling
bag in his hand, like one ready for a journey.

" I 'se called, sah," said Ambrose, in his soft-
est voice, *' ter 'trust ye, sah, wid my ados ter

HALF A CURSE. 281

Venus. I 'se gwine 'way, sah, wid Cap'n Grace.
Venus, she sut'nly ar comical, an' I wisht, sah,
you hab de kin'ness ter look ayfter 'er dis yere
mawnin' ; she up yonder ter de place, an' I 'se
unner de impression, sah, she aimin' fo' ter chop
Mr. Bal'win's head open wid de ax ! Yes'ah.
No, sah " — as Johnny made an impulsive
movement — " dar ain't no call fo' aggitatin'
yo' seff ; wait twell I comes ter de squeal 'er
de story. I done seen Venus sharpin' dat ax,
an' I seen 'er guvin' de stockin' — dat same
stockin' she kep 'er money in, ye unnerstan',
sah, an' nebber so much 's let 'er lawfil husban'
peek enter hit — she guv dat stockin' ter Miz
Dee Medeecis fo' ter keep fo' Miz Legree. She
done so ; I seen 'er. I wuz present, pussonly,
myseff, unner de bed. So, sah, habin' de bes'
wishes fo' Venus, dough she hab no right no-
tions 'bout de duties er de weaker vessel, I 'se
done gone ter Mr. Bal'win, an' he won' go dar
't all, but send de sogers."

" But she may resist the soldiers " —
" No, sah ; pardin', sah ; I 'se guv 'em de
key er de back do', an' w'ile Venus she darin'
dem in front, torrers kin come in behin'. I
hates ter argy wid Venus ; she am so prege-
deeced like, she ain't reasonable. So ye be so
kin', please, sah, gib my bes' respec' ter Venus,
an' tell 'er I forgibs ev'yt'ing, an' I 'se done

282 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

gone fo' good ; an' ef we all don' meet up en
dis worl', I hopes ter meet up with 'er en de
bright worl' above, whar dey ain't no merry in'
nur givin' up merryin' an' de wicked cease deir
trubblin' an' de weary am at res'."

Here Ambrose took out a white handker-
chief, and, so to speak, dusted his eyes with it ;
then made a deep bow and departed.

" Venus is well rid of him," thought John-
ny ; " now, how much of that was a lie ? "

But for once Ambrose had spoken the truth,
as Johnny discovered when he got to the Legree
gate, for he could see blue-coats on the piazzas,
and he met Venus with an axe on her shoulder.
She answered his questions with inscrutable
composure : " I 'se gwine speak Mr. Bal'win,"
said she.

" Do you need an axe for that ? Venus, I
believe you mean to kill Baldwin. You think
then Mrs. Legare will get the place back, but
she won't; it will go to Baldwin's relations.
You never will get it back that way. And
they will hang you, my poor friend, and what
will Miss Nannie do without you ? "

He had touched the right chord. The axe
trembled on the huge shoulder, then all at once
it was hurled to the ground, and Venus was
crouching beside it, rocking herself to and fro
in bitter anguish, but never uttering a sound.

HALF A CURSE. 283

Johnny did not know how to interrupt this sav-
age, silent grief. At last she arose, arranged
her dress decently, and said very quietly :
" Marse cap'n, Miss Nannie done los' ev'yt'ing
— her paa, dera two boys, an Marse Renny he
killed up, too, las' monf ; an' — an' my li'le w'ite
baby, de Lawd done take 'er fo' ter be happy
'way fum we all. Marse cap'n, I cayn't lebe
Miss Nannie by 'er lone ! No, I 'se hab ter
stay. Oh, how come my witch mammy nebber
I'arn me no witchin' ? All I knows dess haff
er cuss. Wat de wuth am Aa^ercusa ? Deb-
bil lebe ye most 'tickleres' p'int."

" Never mind, Venus," said Johnny ; " we '11
get it without the devil."

He quite meant what he said, and, on leav-
ing Florida, he used all his own and his family's
influence, which was not small, in Mrs. Legare's
behalf ; but it was a time when both sides were
stripping themselves of the superfluous moral-
ities for the last fierce tussle, and he could do
nothing. Then he wrote to Venus, proposing
that she try to buy the place of Baldwin. An
answer came promptly enough, from Mrs. De'
Medici ; Venus had tried, but Baldwin wouldn't
sell the place for less than five thousand dollars.

Johnny was not too good to swear a little
over that letter. "Wait a little," said he,
" we '11 get the place cheaper than that."

284 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

His interest was so tlioronglily roused tLat lie
went down to see Venus as soon as the end of
the war left him at liberty. He found her
established in the Minorcan's house, and selling
preserves at such a rate that she had to hire an
assistant. She had fitted up a room with the
old furniture of Mrs. Legare's chamber, and
kept it always ready, down to the nosegay on
the table. " Kase I knows not de day nur de
hour, and I'se keep ready fo' my Miss Nannie."

Baldwin was as obdurate as ever. This was
the state of things when Miss Nannie came
back. Johnny was still in town, but so changed
was she that he did not know her. He had
gone out that day with Venus to "the place."
Walking through the ruined gardens, and
viewing the deserted and dismantled house, it
seemed to him a type of the whole South. Per-
haps, because he knew all the little domestic
details of the life of the past owners, and
because he had, in a way, entered into their
joys and their sorrows, a profound sense of the
contrast and the desolation made Johnny mel-
ancholy. He recalled the radiant creature
whom he had seen, with a kind of pang. And it
was at this moment that he saw a thin, elderly
woman, in rusty black draperies, come slowly
and wearily down the avenue. She was quite
near him before he perceived that really she

HALF A CURSE. 285

was a young woman, whose hair had turned
gray. Venus was just behind Johnny. She
screamed, and ran towards the lady.

At the same time a man came around the
house. The man was Baldwin. Johnny saw
that the lady spoke to him. " Do you live here,
sir ? " said she.

" No, ma'am," answered Baldwin, civilly ;
" but I own the place."

" You — own — the — place ? " gasped she.
" How did you get it ? "

'' Bought it of Uncle Sam. It was sold for
taxes."

Then Venus caught her mistress about the
waist, and, supporting her with one arm, shook
her free fist in Baldwin's face.

*'0h, ye debbil!" she yelled. " Dis am
Miz' Legree ! "

" Hey ? " said Baldwin. » Well, I don't guess
ye '11 expect me to say I 'm pleased to meet ye,
ma'am."

" I thought I was coming home, Venus,"
said the poor lady.

Johnny could n't bear any more.

" Confound it all, Baldwin," said he, " let 's
see if we can't settle this. You say you will
sell for five thousand ; I '11 give you your price."

"No ye don't, colonel," said Baldwin. *'I
ain't sellin', and what 's more, I ain't going to

286 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

sell. The land will rise, and I kin afford to
wait. An' if I was sellin', d — d if I 'd sell to

"You cur," said Johnny, " if you say another
word I '11 thrash you." He looked as though
he might not wait for the other word.

" An' I holp him," said Venus.

"No, Venus," Mrs. Legare cried. "No, sir;
you are kind, but it would be useless; I know
the man now. He was an overseer on my
uncle's plantation, and was sent away for cheat-
ing. He went into the Yankee army afterward
as a sutler, but he had to leave because he
would get provisions for the people here from
the commissary and then sell the provisions."

Baldwin ground his teeth, but it was not
easy to denj^ this with Tindall looking on, so he
forced a sickly kind of laugh, saying: " You 're
a lady, ma'am, an' you kin talk an' I have to
listen, if it is on my own grounds, but it 's gittin'
late an' I have to be goin'."

Mrs. Legare turned her back on him, not
deigning to answer. Venus accompanied her
mistress ; but she rather marred the dignity of
their departure by shaking her fists at Baldwin
all the way to the gate, and screaming unintel-
ligible imprecations, backing out, meanwhile, as
if from a royal presence.

She informed Johnny, later, that she had

HALF A CURSE. 287

launched at Baldwin a curse of terrific power.
"Dat same haff er cuss my mammy I'arn me,"
said she, '^ mek dat Bal'win squeal fo' sho, fotch
de wuss sorter trubbel on him. Mabbe he git
out dough, kase dey 's jess de fust haff. Mos'
like gre't trubbel, deff, mabbe, come ter me,
too, kase er meddlin' wid de debbil's tings.
Dat ar's w'yfo' I done nebber cuss 'im befo'.
I like fo' ter lib an 'see Miss Nannie. Dess
see 'er, dat 's a satisfaction ter me."

This was after Venus had taken Mrs. Legare
to her home, and when she was bidding good-by
to Johnny, who must leave the town that night,
having received a telegram from the North
about business requiring his presence.

Venus wept as she blessed him and implored
him to return soon.

• •••••••

The decrepit old Spanish town was trans-
formed into a fashionable " winter-resort "
before Johnny saw it again. He stared discon-
tentedly at the smart new shops and the huge
wooden hotels which had taken the place of the
modest hostelries of his knowledge. " Confound
it, how they have spoiled the place ! " thought
Colonel Tindall.

Strolling along, he found himself at last in
one of those lane-like streets which are inter-
rupted by the plaza for a space and then go

288 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

crookedly on until they melt into the marshes
beyond the town. He stopped before a house,
such a house as used to be common as possible,
but which was already growing rare. The pink
plaster hiding the coquina front was richly
mottled by lichens, chipped away, also, in
places, showing the stone. It rose in a straight
line from the sand (sidewalk the street had
none), and was continued in a garden wall.
The steep roof made an upward and forward
slant over a hanging balcony, and some queer
little dormer windows blinked out above. The
door to the house was the garden gate. Over
the brass knocker hung a sign — " Furnished
Rooms."

" Now, this is a decent house," said Johnny.
" By Jove ! "

The exclamation was caused by the appear-
ance of a gigantic negress on the balcony. She
looked down, saw, clapped her hands together,
and disappeared. In an incredibly short time
she was below, kneeling before Johnny the bet-
ter to embrace him, and blessing the Lord.

" De chari'ts er Isril an' de hossmen darof,"
shouted Venus, swaying Johnny backward and
forward ; " de rose er Sharon an' de lily er de
valle}^ praise de Lawd, O my soul, dis am you
fo' sho', honey ! De lamb, wid him same yaller
ha'r, an' lubly red cheeks de ve'y same — dess

HALF A CURSE. 289

fatter ! Hallelooger ! laws, laws — kin ye hole
yo'seff stiddy, marse cuniiel, dess a minit twell
I res' my ban' on yo' sboul'er 'n h'ist myseff
hup — I ain't de figger fo' knellin', dat 's sho'."

Of course Venus would have him go into the
house to Mrs. Legare, who received him with, a
cordiality amazing to the modest fellow.

'^ Laws, my baby," said Venus, " ye ain't
s'pose Miss Nannie Legree an' me done forgit
ye ? We all 'members ye reg'lar en our ev'nin'
supperclations, we does. An' dat ar check er
ye done sen' me, I 'se got it safe en de stockin'.
Miss Nannie, she guv de stockin' ter de bank
fo' ter keep in deir big iron box " —

" But the check was for your law-suit — to
get back your property," said Johnny. He sat
blushing in the most extraordinary way, and
thinking Mrs. Legare handsomer every minute.
Gray hair ? — well, what could suit those divine
dark eyes better ? Thin ? — yes, to be sure ;
but the stouter Johnny grew in his own person,
the slimmer became his ideal woman's shape.

Meanwhile, Venus answered in the fullness
of her heart: "De 'serbs, dey pays fo' de la win'.
An' we rents rooms ; sleeps 'em, don' eat 'em ;
an' we alls roomers don' make a mite er trub-
bel. An, de lawin' ar gwine on prosperin'
an' ter prosper ; be'n frow two co'ts a'reddy.
We alls lawyer, he says ef we kin dess git

290 KNITTERS IN THE SUN

de 'session we'se git de propputty. Dey 's
a right smart er folkses lawed bout deir prop-
putty, an' some dey 's comperromised, but dat
BalVin lie won' gib in — I lay de debbil holp
him" —

" How about the curse, Venus ? " Johnny
could not resist asking.

He got a portentous roll of head and eyes to-
gether, and " Nebber you min' de cuss," said
Venus ; " hit come. Ain't he done los' de on-
lies' chile he hab ? An' I know dis, he don'
durst lib in dat ar house hisseff ; lets it ter a
po' cracker man fo' mos' nuffin', he so skeered."
Johnny soon found from Mrs. Legare that
Venus was not misinformed as to the value of
the possession of the property in a legal sense.

"Venus," said Johnny, "I think I see my
way ; I '11 manage the cracker."

" Yes, marse cunnel," said Venus, in nowise
surprised, " an' dis time, I lay de debbil holp
ws."

Johnny and Venus had resumed their confi-
dential relations at once. He had explained
that his long absence was caused by his being
in Europe. " Wid yo' wife, honey ? " said Ve-
nus, rather anxiously.

"I am not so fortunate as to be married,
Venus."

" I 'lows 't war de ladv dat am forternate,"

o

HALF A CURSE. 291

said Venus, simply. " Den you ain't merriad,
an' Miss Nannie Legree am a widder? Singler !
Singler ! But ain't she dat sweet, marse cun-
nel?"

" She certainly is, Venus," said Johnny, with
rather a doleful smile, for he had begun to think
that he was likely to exchange a few delicious
days for a long heartache. " However, I '11 get
her place back," thought he, " then I can go."

The cracker was induced to move out by
night, — how, Johnny best knew, — and that
same night Venus and Johnny moved Mrs.
Legare's furniture back into the house. They
had unloaded the last cartload, and were stand-
ing in the hall, and Venus had chuckled to her-
self, " Got de debbil on we alls side dis time,"
when they both heard the same noise — the
rapid thud of hoofs, as if a furious rider were
galloping down the avenue.

Somehow, Baldwin had discovered the plot.
" Let him come," said Venus, grimly, flinging
the door open wide, " me an' de debbil kin
match him ! " Baldwin jumped off his horse
and rushed at her. She had a candle in her
hand, and by its flare her vast bulk loomed up
like a black mountain. With one arm she
caught the raging man by the shoulder and
held him writhing and sputtering with fury,
but helpless as a kitten in her grasp, while with

292 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

the other she slowly and impressively wagged
the candle at him in the manner of a finger,
saying: "I 'clar' I'se 'sprised at ye, boss, mos'
knockin' me down dat a way ; clean ondecent ! "

" You git outer my house ! " roared Baldwin.

" Dis yere am Miss Nannie Legree's house,"
said Venus ; " it ain't yo' house nebber no mo'.
We alls got de 'session, and I 'se tell ye plain,
boss, ef ye'se gwine on dis a way, 'sturbin' de
quality an' tryin' ter faze 'em, I 'se trow ye
down, right yere, an' sot on ye twell ye ca'm
an' peacerful an' readdy go home. Fo' de
Lawd, I will so. Ye heah me ! "

Baldwin blustered something about wanting
to talk to a man.

" Try TTze," said Johnny.

"I'll fix you to-morrer," snarled Baldwin.
" If there 's a law in the land I '11 have it,
and " —

But the rest of his threats were lost, for he
turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode
off, swearing.

"Bress de good debbil, fo' so much!" said
Venus.

All the next day they expected him — an
anxious day it was ; but he did not come, nor
did he come the day after, and so a week went
by without any sign from him, until it was ru-
mored about the town that he had fallen ill.

HALF A CURSE. 293

Then they said that his wife and a servant had
taken the disease. Finally the oldest doctor in
town reined in his horse to say a few low spoken
words to Mrs. Legare on the street. The horse
was jaded and the doctor pale ; he had been
riding in different directions, but all his patients
had the same disease, and all had been with
Baldwin.

" He went to Savannah and brought it back
with him," said the doctor. " When he knew
he had it, he let people come to see him. Yes,
ma'am. He has always been a curse to this
town, but this is the worst of all, for it 's yellow
fever sure as death."

Mrs. Legare went home and warned her
boarders. There were only three of them, the
time being early in November. Two of them
left the town that day. The third was Johnny
Tindall. He flatly refused to stir unless he
might take Mrs. Legare and Venus with him.

" But / have had the fever ; there is no dan-
ger for me," pleaded Mrs. Legare, '' and the
negroes don't take it. Besides, I am a South-
erner, these are my people, my place is here.
But you, sir, why should you risk your life ? "

Johnny looked at her, a longing that shook
his heart rising in him, to tell her that it was
because it would be sweeter to die with her,
beside her, for her, as it were, than to live apart

294 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

from her. But he only said : " Well, it would
be rather a scrubby thing to run off and leave
you, don't you think ? "

He was the stronger — he stayed.

The fever grew worse and worse. People
shut themselves in their houses, so that it be-
came hard to get nurses for the sick. It was
such a new calamity that the townspeople were
stunned. " There never was a case of yellow
fever in the town before," they would repeat pit-
eously, as though there were some hope in their
past immunity. Then they cursed the man who
had brought this horrible mischief upon them.
No soul would go near him, and the house where
he and his wife lay sick was shunned like one
haunted.

" Let them live or die as the devil pleased,"
the people said. So the weeds choked the gar-
den, and the wind rattled the blinds, and the
rain poured in through an open window, while
the few passers-by only crossed themselves and
hurried on.

" Hit am de cuss," said Venus, with solem-
nity, not without a touch of gloom}^ pride, " de
cuss dat I cussed ? "

One day, a lady, passing on the other side of
the street, observed a little girl mount the steps,
and called to her, " Don't go in there, dearie ;
they have the fever ? "

o

HALF A CURSE. 295

"Oh, yes, ma'am, I must !" answered the
child, lookuig back brightly. "I take care of
them ; I 'm their little girl ! They 're awful
sick." Before the lady could cross the street
she had entered the house.

" Oh, the poor little thing," thought Mrs.
Legare. " Who can she be ? They have no
children. And oh, how like she is to Tessie! "

She told Venus about the incident. '' 'Clar'
dat ar muss er be'n dat li'le gyurl dey done
'dopt," said Venus, " an' dey does say dat debbil
am right petted on her. Dar now, Miss Nan-
nie, you lay down an' res' or I'se tell Marse
Tindall."

Already Johnny had come to play an impor-
tant part in Mrs. Legare's thoughts. In those
days of selfish fear and frantic misery brave
souls were drawn together. She admired
Johnny's clear head and his military cheerful-
ness, so independent of outside gloom. She
would not let him assist her directly in nursing;
but he was invaluable outside, the right hand
of the mayor, the commandant of the post, and
the doctors. Yet she was conscious, all the
time, of a vigilant watch over her health and
comfort, and of a hundred unobtrusive atten-
tions. " Nobody but Venus could take such
good care of me as you do," she said once,
gratefully.

296 KNITTERS IN TEE SUN.

Venus, of course, was a tower of strength.

" Laws," said she, *' I wisht I cud mek my-
seff inter ten folks, den I mought go 'roun' !
Say, dough. Miss Nannie, dar am one pow'full
comfort er dis yere hour er 'fliction — dat ar
ole Bal'win ain't gwine to bodder we all no
mo', kase his gwine die, sho'. Miz' Dee Med-
eecis, she say she go by 'is 'ouse dis mawnin',
an' she heah dat ar' li'le gyurl, po' ting ! moan-
in', an' moanin' rale pittible, an' dey wuz clean
deserted, an' dat debbil he come to der winder,
an' he wuz lookin' like deff, an' he h'ist down
a tin pail, tied on a sheet tored in two, an' he
done holler on Miz' Dee Medeecis, how he'd gin
'er ten doUa' fo' ter fotch 'im a pail er watter
fo' ter guv dat ar baby. ' I know ye hates me,'
sezee, ' but de chile nebber hurted ye.' So
Miz' Dee Medeecis she got 'im de watter, an'
she 'lows by dis time dey 's all drinked deyseff
ter deff, mos' like — laws, honey, whar ye
gwine ? "

Mrs. Legare did not look at the negress as
she replied that she was going to the Bald-
wins.

" Oh, my heavenly Marster," screamed Ve-
nus, "de chile am gone clean 'stracted crazy.
Dar, honey, you sot right down an' leff dat ar
old debbil die comf'uble ; he 's got all dat ar
watter ! "

HALF A CURSE. 297

" Venus," said Mrs. Legare, " I must go. I
have been thinking of it for two days. I said
if the child got sick — Oh, Venus, the poor
little child, the baby that looks like Tessie ! "

" Well den," said Venus, sullenly, " if dat
chile hab be sabe kase she favor Miss Tessie,
den I 'se de one ter do it, an' I does it. I goes
an' nusses de w'ole batch er dem. I knowed
dat debbil git eben wid me, foolin' wid he
cusses ! "

She was as good as her word, and in spite of
Mrs. Legare's expostulations went to Baldwin's
within the hour.

She faithfully nursed them until the fever
turned and the new nurse secured by Johnny
arrived. Then she went home. It is doubt-
ful if, in their weakness and delirium, they
quite realized why she was there.

The night of her return was rainy, and when
Johnny looked in on Mrs. Legare, the next
morning, he found Venus wrapped in shawls
over the fire and Mrs. Legare busy with med-
icines.

*' She ought not to have come out in the rain
last night," said Mrs. Legare; "she was tired
and heated, and she has caught cold."

" Laws, Miss Nannie," said Venus, feebly,
*' I cud n't holp comin', I wuz dat 'omesick.
I'se cl'ar sides myseff wid j'y, gittin' back ter

298 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

my own fambly ag'in. An' dis yere cole am
dess de spite er de debbil, nuffin else on earth."

Just a week from that day, John Tindall,
sitting with his bowed head on his hands,
vaguely conscious of the fragrance of roses all
about him, heard the knocker on the front
door clank and clank.

The man outside was Baldwin. Mrs. Legare
opened the door. She was looking worn and
pale, her eyelids were swollen with weeping,
and her eyes had the glaze of recent tears, but
they blazed into their old brilliancy at the
sight of him and his words. *' You see I 've
come, ma'am, like I said. Now, I want to
know how soon you '11 be ready to move out ! "

He was prepared for everything except the
one thing that happened. She drew aside her
skirts ; she said, " Come in ! "

" Well ! " said Baldwin ; but he came in,
stumbling a little because of his weakness and
the dark hall, and she, leading, opened the par-
lor door.

Tindall had jumped up, and Baldwin saw
him standing behind some large dark object.
Looking more closely, he perceived the object
to be a coffin, and within the coffin, above the
flowers and the soft wool draperies, was the
peaceful mask which had been Venus's face.

HALF A CURSE. 299

Mrs. Legare laid her hand on the folded
hands which would never work for her again.

" There," she said, very quietly, *' there is
my last friend. She lies there because she
went to help you. She came home from your
house and died. Now, if you will, turn me
— and her out of our home ! "

Baldwin's hat was still on his head, he took
it off ; his face was changed, and he leaned
against the wall.

"Damn.it all," said he, hoarsely, "I ain't
goin' to turn ye out. She came and nursed us,
true enough. I know now. Look a here, she's
always be'n tryin' to buy it — I give her the
house."

He stumbled back through the hall. They
heard the door swing — not loudly.

Johnny came and stood by Mrs. Legare.

" Dear," he said, " don't say your last friend,
because that can't be while I am alive. I want
to tell you what Venus said to me just before
she died. You know, dear soul, she believed
she was dying on account of that foolish curse.
' The devil will kill me,' she said ; ' but I don't
care, I got the house for Miss Nannie. I give
it to her and you. Keep it for her, won't you,
Marse Tindall, for you love her too ? ' Truly,
she has given you the house now, and if — the

300 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

other — Oh, my darling, I love you with all
my heart ; don't send me away ! "

She was crying bitterly ; but when he took
her hand she did not repulse him.

" It is Venus gives it to me," he said.

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR.

PAET I.

Polly Ann Shinault was mending the
Clover Bend ferry-boat. The ferry-boat was
nothing more than an old scow, leaky and un-
ruly. Lum, Polly Ann's husband, meant to
mend it that morning ; but Lum was scouring
the bottom after a stray mule. So Polly Ann
had pounded the head of the hatchet on the
handle — they have a natural tendency to part
and go their separate ways in a Southern yard
— and was patching the leaks herself. They
said at the Bend that Polly Ann was "pow'ful
handy." She was a handsome young woman.
Some blending of French and Spanish blood
from the earliest Arkansas travelers had given
her the mass of purple-black hair under her
man's hat, the clear olive of her skin, her velvet
black eyes, and delicate profile. Her eyelashes
were long and thick and curled at the ends.
Long eyelashes and small features are not un-
common in Arkansas faces. Did Polly Ann
smile, she showed a rarer beauty, even little

302 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

teeth, white as milk. But Polly Ann seldom
smiled, being a silent, serious creature whose
own husband felt a trifle in awe of her. Her
primitive repairs completed, she straightened
her bent shoulders, clasped her hands behind
her neck, and looked about her. When she
stood she was tall and erect as a young cypress.
Her eyes spanned the Black River flowing
at her feet, and took in, without noting, the
whitewashed walls of the mill, the store, and
the score or two of houses that go with an Ar-
kansas cotton plantation. The time was early
in November. The cotton was ready for pick-
ing, and flakes of white spattered the brown
fields. The yards were frowsy with stalks of
jimson weed and withered grass. The great
cypress forest shut in the cleared space like a
wall. The scene was monotonous, yet about it
was something sombre and vast, a loneliness
that the presence of the few low-browed houses
seemed to mark rather than lessen. A little
spiral of smoke drifting above a chimney here
and there, some pigs dotting the sandy road, a
few riderless horses patiently drooping their
noses against the fence rail before the store,
were the only signs of habitation. Behind
Polly Ann lay the canebrake and the forest.
The water mirrored the Shinault cabin with
its one wee window and "stick and dirt " chim-
ney.

o

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 303

During the war (not so far back by many-
years, that November day, as now) escaped
prisoners used to hide in the canebrake. After
the war runaway convicts from the stockade at
Powhatan found shelter there sometimes, and
then the cane would be crushed by the leaps of
panting hounds; and many a night had Polly
Ann shuddered, listening to the dogs baying,
and picturing the wretch crouched among the
sodden grasses.

Plenty of grim traditions hung, heavy as its
own miasma, over the cypress swamp. Not a
rod away was the bare spot, dented by cypress
trees, where Old Man Bryce's cabin stood un-
til the guerillas murdered him and his wife and
burned their bones under their home. A whole
company of guerillas had dangled from the syc-
amore limbs for that murder. The shapeless
green in front of the store had been the scene
of bloody quarrels. Down by the river bank,
on the little knoll which the spring covered
with wild flowers, Bud Boas had killed his part-
ner. Boas was tried and acquitted ; but his
own conscience was not so lenient as men. As
the slain man fell he had flung out his hand,
touching Boas's cheek. Ever since, the unhappy
slayer had been haunted by a touch. He would
wake from sleep, screaming that he felt the
hand. At his work, at home, at camp-meetings

304 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

even, where tie would go in the vain hope of
eluding his persecutor, the tortured man might
spring up, wildly rubbing his face, and rush
away, or fall in convulsions horrible to see.
From no other cause than this ghostly touch, he
had seasons of drinking hard, but it was said
that liquor could not blunt his senses.

Boas's cabin was near the Shinaults' ; and
this afternoon while Polly Ann stood looking,
she saw his limp figure in butternut jeans slip
through the store doorway and creep along the
bank. Years ago Boas had been an exception-
ally tall and strong man, bringing a backwoods-
man's stature, muscle, and ruddy tan from the
Tennessee mountains ; now his stooping shoul-
ders and lank chest matched the sickly pallor
of his face, with its hollow cheeks and restless,
faded eyes.

Approaching the shore, he hailed Polly Ann
with a " Whoo — op ! " She got into the scow
and pushed off. She paddled as easily as an
Indian. Meanwhile Boas had been joined by
another man, who drew the boat up on the
beach, saying, " How 's all, Polly Ann ? "

Polly Ann had not seen him until he spoke ;
and she flushed a little, as though from surprise.

" You come back, Whitsun Harp?" said she.

" Got back yistiddy," the man replied. He
had a slow full voice, with a kind of severe

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 305

melody in its cadence not in the least like the
high-pitched Arkansas drawl. Whitsun Harp
was a head shorter than Boas. He wore a blue
flannel shirt, and brown jean trousers tucked
into high boots, all quite whole and clean. His
compact, powerful frame was not of the Arkan-
sas type any more than his dark, square, reso-
lute face ; yet, in the phrase of the region, he
had been " born and raised on the Black River
bottom."

At first glance, one could see a resemblance
between him and the young woman, — not a
likeness of feature, but of manner and expres-
sion ; both had the same direct, serious gaze,
the same slow speech, and the same proud bear-
ing. When Polly Ann reddened, Harp grew
paler. The men stepped into the boat, and
Polly Ann greeted Boas: "Howdy, Mr. Boas?"

" My health 's mighty triflin'," answered
Boas ; " someway, I 'm puny all the time ;
sorter mis'ry in my ches' ; some days I feel
pow'ful weak, caynt skeercely walk. Ora she
'lows she '11 send fer Dr. Vinson, but I don't
guess it's no use."

" Doctors does good sometimes," said Polly
Ann.

" Say, Polly Ann," said Harp, " I heerd tell
you all 'd los' a mewl."

" Lum 's went ayfter it," said Polly Ann ;

306 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" we missed it Monday, an' we waited an'
waited fer it to come back, an' it did n't, so
Lum he 's went ayfter it. Lum 'lows it 's stole,
he 'lows some cotton-picker toled it off."

'' Looks like," assented Boas ; " them cotton-
pickers is mighty ornery folks."

Harp asked a few questions, short and to the
point; and when the boat landed he drew Polly
Ann aside, while Boas stooped to mend a dilapi-
dated shoe with a rag.

" Polly Ann," said Harp, " I come to see ye.
I '11 tend to yo' mewl. Ye know I ar' turned
regerlater."

" I 've heerd tell on 't."

" Wa'al, hit 's so. I aim to mek these yere
pyarts mo' decenter. Polly Ann, this yere 's a
turrible mean kentry, drinkin' an' sw'arin' an'
fightin' an' devilment er all kin's o' goin' on !
An' the chil'en bein' raised to drink an' fight
an' die jes like we uns ; Polly Ann, hit ain't
right! An' thar ain't no need fer it to be,
neether. I be'n in other settlements. They
ain't like we all ; they 've got brick chimbleys,
an' battened heouses, an' a school-heouse whar
they kin hev preachin', stiddier hevin' it in a
loft like we all. We mought, too, but we 're so
triflin' we caynt mek a riffle."

" Looks like," agreed Polly Ann politely.

" Yit how to holp it ? I 'd lay an' study the

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 307

hull night through, Polly Ann, studin' 'beout
hit. The mo' I studied the wuss it looked.
Wa'al — it war ayf ter ye taken up with Lum
an' war merried, hit come preachin' Sunday,
an' I went ter preachin'. 'T war the best out
at preachin' I ever heerd. All 'beout calls.
God called some on us one way an' some a
tother, but we wuz all called ter his sarvice.
An' I says ter myself, ' Lord, how ar' I called ?
I ar' the bes' blacksmith in the bottom, but I
cayn't talk wuth a shuck.' An', Polly Ann, a
voice said back, cl'ar 's a boat- whistle : ' Whit-
sun Harp, ye caynt talk folks decent, but ye
kin lick 'em decent. They need a regerlater
yere mo'n a preacher.' I jes growed cole all
over, fur I war walkin' all by my lone self en
the bottom, not a critter 'reoun' 'cept hoegs.
'Lord,' says I ter the sky, 'they'll kill me
shore, if I turn regerlater an' lick 'em. An'
w'at '11 maw do then ? ' So I went home tur-
rible troubled in my mind. Polly Ann, w'en I
got home maw was in one 'er spells, an' afore
sundown she war dead. Thet war the Lord
A'mighty's answer to my hesitatin'. Ayfter
thet I went ter wuk. Fust I sarved notice
on them men thet got drunk reg'lar Saturday
nights at the store. Then I licked them thet
persisted in wrong-doin'. I licked ole Skirey
fer oppressin' the pore ; an' I evened it up by

808 KNITTERS IN THE SUN

lickin' two niggers tliet wild n't do a fair day's
wuk fer their wages. I licked Sol Looney fer
fightin' with his wife, an' I licked a man right
smart fer stealin' — thet ar 's 'beout all."

"Law me," said Polly Ann, admiring him,
"but, Whitsun, don' they fight ye? Folks
don' like ter be licked."

" They 've got to fight or be licked — one.
Mos' times I ar' too spry fer 'em an' take their
knives an pistils 'way. They did shoot a shoot
at me wunst, but hit missed."

Polly Ann's dark eyes were shining through
a mist of eagerness, and her lip quivered as she
said : " But they mought hit ye ! "

"Yes," said Harp quietly, while something
gentle and unusual relaxed his features, a look
at once patient and sad ; " wa'al, ef they did n't
kill me, I wud go on jes' the same, an' ef hit
did — I ain't no wife nur babies ter grieve
ay f ter me, an' I reckon the Lord kin tek keer
Clover Bend some other way."

Polly Ann drew a deep breath. " Looks
like 't wuz a call ! " said she.

"'Tis a call, shore," said Harp solemnly ;
" I waynted ter tell ye so 's ye wud know the
truth 'beout it, folks lyin' so ginerally. It 's no
differ ter me 'beout the res', but I waynted you
ter know bekase — we uns played tergether
w'en we wuz little tricks, an' I alius tole ye
everythin', ye rememberJ'

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 309

She remembered. Perhaps she remembered
more, for her cheeks grew red, and her brown
fingers were clasped together so tightly that
they made dents in the knuckles.

" An'," continued Harp very gently, " ef I
shud hev ter do suthin' thet ye moughtn't like,
hit 's 'kase I hev ter an' not my seekin' — bein'
called. Ye '11 consider thet thar, Polly Ann ? "

" I don't guess ye '11 ever do nuthin' ye don'
hole ter be right, Whitsun Harp."

" Thankee, Polly Ann," said Harp. He al-
most timidly touched her hand, holding it for
a second in a loose clasp. Then he strode away
without a glance at Boas. The latter rose di-
rectly and joined Polly Ann.

" Did Whitsun Harp say onythin' 'beout Lum
ter ye ? " said Boas.

" Naw," said Polly Ann ; " w'at fer shud
he?"

Boas seemed to have a difEculty in speaking ;
he had to clear his throat twice before he could
say : " Wa'al, fact is, Polly Ann, he 's heerd tell
— wa'al, lies 'beout Lum like he be'n too much
ter the store an' dances an' sich like tricks,
an' Whitsun he 'lows Lum 's triflin' an' — he 's
warned him."

" Warned — Lum ? " cried Polly Ann.

" Said like he 'd lick 'im, ef he don' quit," re-
plied Boas with primitive directness. He laid

310 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

the tips of his fingers on her sleeve, and his face
grew earnest. " Fer the good Lord's sake, Polly-
Ann, don' ye let Lum mad Whitsun ! Nary
man en this bottom kin stan' agin him. Ye
know Steve Elder, how big he is ? He stole
a pa'r boots at the store. Whitsun he seen
it, but he never let on ; but w'en this yere
Steve comes fer his acceount he fin's at the
bottom, ' One pa'r boots, so much. Putt down
by Whitsun Harp.' W'en he read thet ar he
never opened 'is mouth. Jes paid. Heknowed
he cud n't stand up agin Whitsun." All the
while Boas talked he was scanning Polly Ann's
face to see the effect of his words. " Thar war
a circus feller too. He brung a mighty ornery,
mean show to the Bend, and Whitsun warned
him not ter show thet ar show agin ; but he
pitched 'is tent an' wuz marchin' 'reoun' in
front, a puttin' on doeg, w'en up comes Whit-
sun, an' he says, ' Did n't I warn ye not ter show
yo' durned ondecent show yere?' sezee. An'
he slapped up thet ar feller an' flung him 'cross
a log an' pulled his belt 'reoun' an' yanked out
'is pistil an' flung hit cl'ar 'n' 'cross the road
an' licked thet ar circus feller tell he hollered.
An' ye 'member ole Skirey thet he guv the bud
to, spiter him an' 'is two sons. He knocked
the big un down, an' the little one lit a shuck
mighty spry. An' who killed the mad doeg

o

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR 311

with a hammer ? An' who held the wild hoeg
by the tail tell Mark Lady cud stick 'im ? —
them two men off their hosses en the cane, an'
their guns empty ! Naw, naw, Polly Ann, don'
let Lum mad Whitsun ! An' 't ain't lickin's
thet 's mos' ter fear." His woeful eyes turned
from Polly Ann's face in a fleeting, shrinking,
indescribable glance toward the river bank —
" they mought git — ter — fightin' ! "

"I ain't feered fer Lum ef they do," said
Lum's wife haughtily.

But no sooner had the well-meaning threat-
ener gone than she ran into the cabin, shut the
door, and flung her proud head on the table in
a passion of tears.

Lum Shinault came home by moonlight. His
wife had saved his supper, and he stretched his
legs out beneath the white oil-cloth with a sigh
of content.

" My, my, my ! " said Lum in his soft, pleas-
ant voice, " talk 'beout cookin' ! Polly Ann,
ye allers git thar with both feet. Fried pork
an' sop an' taters an' pie an' light bread ! Ony-
thin' mo' ter foller ? "

A faint smile lifted the corners of Polly Ann's
mouth. She knew her gifts, and appreciation
is sweet. " I reckon," Lum continued, " hit
meks a differ eatin' en a purty room. This
yere 's a right purty room, Polly Ann."

312 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

He looked about the room, and she looked at
him. The room was poor and bare enough,
with its log walls and uneven floor ; but the
big cotton -stuffed pillows on the bed shone out
of the dusk ; there was a clock on the rude
mantelpiece, a red cushion on the black and
gilt rocking-chair, and a log thicker than a
man's body was blazing in the fire-place. The
flames, rather than the sickly gleam of the
grease lamp, lighted the room and Lum Shi-
nault's face. He was of low stature and slight,
and in the firelight he made one think of a
terra-cotta figure, he was so all of a color, hair,
skin, and clothes all the same, whitish-brown.
But he had sparkling brown eyes and a sensi-
tive mouth that could shut firmly. "Did ye
fin' the mewl ? " said his wife.

" Not a hide nur a ha'r er the blamed crit-
ter," answered Lum cheerfully, " but I seen a
big gang er turkeys. Reckon I shot one, but
I cud n't fin' hit."

" Whitsun Harp wuz yere ; he 'lows he '11 fin'
the mewl fer us."

Lum whistled. His meal being finished, he
got up and stood close to his wife. She had
knotted a scarlet handkerchief about her
throat, which suited her olive skin and black
hair. Lum slid his arm around her waist. " Ye
ar' turrible good-lookin', Polly Ann," said he

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 313

smiling half wistfully ; " I sot a heap er store
by ye."

She neither accepted nor repulsed the caress ;
merely stood, her hands clasped before her, ab-
sently gazing at the fire. His arm fell ; but in
a second he put out his hand again, to finger
softly a stray lock of hair.

" An' Bud Boas, he was yere too," said Polly
Ann ; '* he 'lows ye 'd bes' be keerful kase Whit-
sun 's mad at ye. He 'lows yo' too triflin'."

" An' / 'low Whitsun Harp 's too meddlin' ! "
cried Lum, opening his brown eyes angrily.
"Wat bus'ness ar' hit er his'n? I don' rent er
bim. 'T ain't his plantation. To my notion,
Wbitsun bed orter be run off this yere place ! "

" He 's did a heap er good yere," said Polly
Ann — was it the firelight, Lum wondered, that
made her cheeks so red ? — " Look at the fiorht-
in' an' drinkin' he's stopped ! Thar ain't be'n
a man killed yere sence he turned regerlater."

" Thar '11 be one killed mighty quick, though,
ef he don' quit projickin' 'roun' an' lickin' folks
permiscus'."

Polly Ann laid her hand on her husband's
arm, looking down at him, for she was taller
than he. " Lum," she said solemnly, " he is
called., Whitsun is. They caynt hurt him till
his work 's did. Don' ye say anythin' agin 'im,
Lum."

314 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Luin's frown turned into a broad grin. " Ob,
laws ! called ter lick folks ? Ef tbet ain't tbe
durndest trick ! "

" But be is," sbe insisted ; " be 's bed signs
an' tokens. Don' go agin 'im, Lum."

" Wa'al, boney," said Lum easily, " I ain't
purportin' ter go agin 'im. He 's too big a b'ar
fer me ter tackle."

Polly Ann turned away abruptly. Lum
looked after ber, all tbe ligbt-bearted careless-
ness gone out of bis face. " 'Pears like I jes
cud n't please ber nobow," be tbougbt wbile be
busied bimself clearing tbe table. Lum bad tbe
babit of helping bis wife about tbe bouse ; be
bad acquired it belping bis motber, Lum's fa-
tber being " triflin'."

At tbe same time Polly Ann was tbinking :
"He won' figbt bisself or run enter no danger,
but be '11 sick tbe rest on, an' bim stan' by."
Sbe bardly noticed bow deftly Lum wiped tbe
disbes and brusbed out tbe room. " Be ye too
tired ter listen ter a leetle music, boney ? " be
said wben be bad put tbe broom bebind tbe
door.

" Naw," said Polly Ann, trying to smile, " I
don't guess I 'm ever too tired fer music."

Faint as tbe smile was, Lum welcomed it and
took down bis violin witb a brigbter face.

He played a long wbile; at first, simple mel-

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 315

odies of the plantation and the camp-meeting ;
then, as his thoughts drifted into other memo-
ries, they took their own shape in music rude
as his life, but weird and sad like the cypress
brake. Lum was born a musician. He had
a wonderful ear but the scantiest knowledge,
most of which came from a strolling violinist
who had the swamp fever in Lum's cabin and
left a book of songs for payment. Lum learned
the songs by heart. They were as common-
place as possible, but the ideas, worn shabby
through the handling of generations, were new
and splendid to Lum. Why not ? They could
not have been any fresher to him if they had
just been discovered. They lifted and adorned
his notion of love. They aided the ever-in-
creasing power which his wife exercised over
his imagination. He thought of her in their
language, which had a dignity and charming
tenderness quite lacking in the speech of his
birthplace where a man " took up with a girl
and married her," making no more ado about it ;
the song words were so pretty and kind-sound-
ing, it was like kissing a girl to say them. Lum
was too shy to say them himself. Once he
ventured to call Polly Ann " darling," instantly
blushing up to his eyes. She did not seem to
mind, neither did she seem pleased. It was the
way in which she always met her husband's

316 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

affection. This passive endurance of his love
had come to have a kind of terror for Lum. He
could not understand his wife. To go back to
the beginning, — as Lum did to-night on his
violin strings, — he had married Polly Ann out
of compassion. He was in the field when Old
Man Gooden fell dead in a fit of apoplexy. He
helped Polly Ann carry her father into the
house, and he witnessed her passionate, dumb
agony. Lum had a soft heart, unfettered ex-
cept by a few rustic attentions to a certain
pretty widow on the plantation, Mistress Savan-
nah Lady. When he beheld Polly Ann's des-
olate condition his heart melted.

" Nary kin nigher 'n the Sunk Lan's," mused
Lum, " hit 's turrible hard. An' she sot sich
store by her paw, an' he muched ^ her so. They
sorter kep' ter theyselves, too, I don't guess they
wuz the socherbel kin'. Nary un waitin' on 'er
neether, 'less hit ar' Whitsun Harp. Ef he
don' merry her, I reckon I hed orter. 'T ain't
no mo'n neighborly."

Whitsun making no sign, he carried out his

intention.

Polly Ann assented gravely, almost silently,
to whatever he proposed. Nothing was easier
than to rent a cabin and a pair of mules from

1 To much; Arkansas for to pet, to caress, to make much
of.

o

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 317

the Northern men who had bought the planta-
tion, and settle down to raise a crop.

PoUy Ann, after the first outburst, put her
grief stoically away and only worked the harder.
Polly Ann's father came from the " Sunk
Lands," that mysterious region created by the
great Lisbon earthquake, — an island in the
swamps, half the year cut off from the world,
forgotten except by a few traders. Until she
was fifteen she had lived the solitary life of the
people and grown up in their Indian-like reti-
cence. When she was fifteen, her mother died
and her father took her to Clover Bend. She
was now twenty-three years old, and she had
been married hardly five months. Lum was a
man of the lowlands, who inherited French in-
stincts of sociability and liked idling about and
gossiping. He took his new relations lightly
at first, but soon his wife's stronger nature fas-
cinated him. She awakened all the ardor and
tenderness in him, this beautiful, silent, haughty,
patient woman. " She ar' fairer nur the flow-
ers," quoted Lum from the songs; "an' she's
got a right smart er sense too," he added in the
vernacular. He declared his wife's superiority
with much frankness. " Law me," said he to
Boas, — it was a few days later, and they sat on
the store counter, indulging in the unpretend-
ing luxury of brown sugar and crackers, — *'law

318 KNITTERS IN 'THE SUN.

me, Polly Ann 's wutli a hull crap er me ! Ye 'd
orter see the plunder she 've bought, pickin'
cotton " —

" Wa'al, then," interrupted Boas, dropping
his customary mild, plaintive drawl to a lower
key, " w'y fur be ye so possessed ter cavoort
'reoun' with Savannah Lady ? "
" Me ! " exclaimed Lum.
" Yes, jes ?/ott," repeated Boas with an anx-
ious gaze into Lum's scarlet face. " They 'lows
like ye taken up with 'er. Boy, j-e had n't
orter be agwine on thet way ! Nur j^e had n't
orter come yere, fiddlin' an' carryin' on, an' yo'
wife ter home, by her lone self, studyin' an'
grievm —

" Polly Ann don' grieve," said Lum rather
sullenly ; " leastways she don' grieve ayfter me^
nohow. In co'se I mean," he went on quickly,
" she ar' grievin' fer her paw."

" In co'se," said Boas. There was a pause.
" An' ez regardin' Mistress Lady," Lum
said finally, giving the full prefix with dignit}^
— on ordinary occasions one would only say
" Mis' " in Arkansas, — " we uns wuz raised to-
gether an' natchelly have frien'ly feelin's. But
ef ye ar' 'lowin' thet I even her or ary nother
lady ter Polly Ann ye ar' a long sight outer yo'
reckonin', thet 's all. I knaw I taken her ter
the singin' school the fiddler bed ; but Polly

WHITS UN HARP, REGULATOR. 319

Ann never 'd go thar ter singin', kase — wa'al,
Polly Ann jes natchelly cayn't sing, cay n't
cotch a tune. An' ez fer me goin' ter the store
an' drinkin', I disremember how often I done
come yere ; but I know I never got drunk ony-
"whar, not the least bit on earth. But I ain't
purportin' to be goin' yere ter fiddle nights,
Bud Boas, never no mo'. Folks ain't got no
call ter say I don' ruther stay by Polly Ann
than onywhar nelse."

" Thet 's so," said Boas. " I knawed they
wuz lyin'." Lum did not tell Boas that he
only went to the store because he thought that
Polly Ann did not care to see him home, and
his heart was sore. He could not say that,
since it would seem like complaining of Polly
Ann. But Boas's caution set him thinking;
gossip must be loud to rouse that haunted soul
from its dream of pain.

"Thet thar's w'at Whit Harp done heerd,
dad bum him," growled Lum, " an' blame my
skin ef I don' b'lieve thet ar Savannah ar'
jes foolin' with me fur ter tol on Steve Mor-
row." Which it happened was precisely the
case. Savannah wanted to marry the stock-
man, Morrow, and she used Lum to help her,
not at all sorry to make Polly Ann jealous,
if she could, as well as Morrow. " Ain't thet
thar jest like the critter?" said Lum with per-

320 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

feet good humor; "it's a rig on me an' Steve,
though." Yet he felt a queer resentment
against Harp — a resentment not diminished
by the sight of his lost mule munching cotton
stalks in his own field. " Whitsun fetched 'im,"
Polly Ann exclaimed. It seemed to Lum that
she spoke as though proud of Harp's success.
Lum, the best-tempered man on the plantation,
ground his teeth. "I sw'ar I hate thet thar
Whitsun Harp!" he was thinking.

The next time that he saw Harp was mail day.
Twice a week a rider brought the mail to Clover
Bend. The post-office was in the store, just as
the court-room was, whenever the majesty of
the law was invoked or a jail needed. The
store had a wide platform the right height to
serve instead of a horse block. Savannah Lady
rode up to the platform as Whitsun came
through the door. She was a pretty, kittenish,
fair little woman, and her hair, which was of a
lovely reddish-brown color, had a trick of es-
caping in little ringlets and blowing round her
white neck. After all, there was no great harm
in her ; but to Harp she was the embodiment of
all that was dangerous and alluring in woman.

Lum was on the platform so near that com-
mon gallantry required him to help her alight.
Somehow she stumbled, so he held her for a
second by the elbows. Harp, black as night,

WHITS UN HARP, REGULATOR. 321

watched her recover herself, laugh, blush, and
flutter into the store. He strode up to Lura.
"Lum Shinault," said he in a low tone and
very deliberately, " ef ye don' quit yo' ornery
triflin' ways I '11 lick ye ! "

" Then I '11 kill ye, shore 's death, Whitsun
Harp ! " Lum gasped, choked with passion.

Whitsun only gave him a steady gaze and
turned on his heel.

Lum felt himself despised.

A week went by. Polly Ann was conscious
of a change in Lum. Though kind as ever, his
shy caresses were no longer offered. He worked
harder and seldom went to the store, " an' he
jis' studies the plum w'ile," said Polly Ann.

One day Mrs. Boas came over to ask Lum to
get some quinine and whiskey at the store for
Boas. " He had one er 'is spells," — so the poor
wife always named Boas's fits of terror, — ''an'
he run out en the woods an' got soppin' wet
an' cotched cole an' 'pears like hit gits a leetle
mucher all the w'ile."

After Lum was gone Polly Ann bethought
herself of some corn which should be ground,
and that it was grinding day at the mill. Like
the store, the mill was a versatile and accom-
modating establishment, ginning cotton, sawing
wood, or grinding corn with equal readiness.
So saddling the big gray horse, which was at

322 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

once her dowry and her inheritance, she led
him to the ferry and paddled boat, horse, and
woman across the stream. The Clover Bend
ferry was deserted, but it was accustomed to
desertion, being conducted on Southern prin-
ciples: if you came when the ferryman was
away you must wait until he got back, that
was all.

Polly Ann saw Lum's wagon-box boat on the
sand, and riding up the bank she perceived
Lum himself walking through the cypress brake.

" Cypress Swamp," or the " Black River
bottom," is like a dry river channel winding
through the higher land. When the spring over-
flow comes the lustrous green water rushes
among the tree trunks, and the high land be-
comes a multitude of islands and peninsulas;
but most of the year the channel is dry, and in
autumn the cypress boughs spread a soft russet
carpet on the ground ; the hackberry, maples,
live-oaks, and holly-trees which mingle with the
cypress splash the foliage with splendid hues,
the sunlight filters through the branches and
prints shifting shadows of the vines masking
the thorn-trees, or turns the red berries into
dots of flame. Then the cypress brake is beau-
tiful. But Lum Shinault was not thinking of
its beauty. He was walking slowly, his head
sunk between his shoulders.

o

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 323

" Studyin' !" said Polly Ann.

Lum looked up. The silhouette of a horse's
head had fallen across his path. A sun-bonnet
was bent over the mane. The bonnet hid the
woman's face, but that ringlet of dazzling hair,
floating under the cape, could only belong to
one person. Horse and rider stopped. So did
the footman. His shadow spread out gigantic
on the ground. Then both shadows were blend-
ed together as if in an embrace. Did Polly Ann
grow angry? Not in the least ; she could see
too well.

" Wats got Savannah Lady ? " said she ;
" looks like Lum was guvin' 'er w'iskey an' hold-
m uv er.

This, indeed, was what he was doing. For
once there was no guile about Savannah's acts ;
Lum had served her turn. Young Morrow had
spoken, and she was on her way to buy her
wedding finery when she was seized with a chill ;
but she still rode on, clinging to her horse's
neck, until she met Lum. He gave her some
whiskey.

Now by an evil chance, at this moment,
Whitsun Harp must needs enter the scene on a
gallop. He saw the shadows, he saw the bright
head on Lum's shoulder, the little hands clutch-
ing Lum's arm.

A shower of cypress boughs whirled in the

324 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

air ; a pawpaw branch snapped, wrenched away
by a furious hand ; and Lum lifted his eyes to
see Whitsun's face.

" I tell ye, yo' mistaken ! " shouted Lum.

•' It 's too late for talking now," said Whit-
sun, deep and low.

He jumped off his horse and caught Lum by
the throat. The smaller man was like a baby
in his grip. Lum, writhing and struggling, in
an impotent fury of rage and shame, hardly felt
the blows. Suddenly the hand at his throat
released him so suddenly that he was hurled
to the ground ; he heard his wife's voice, shrill
with anger : " Whitsun Harp, w'at ye doin' ter
my man?"

He sat up, his brain swimming, specks of fire
and blood floating in the air ; but there was
Whitsun standing empty-handed, and Polly
Ann's face over the gray's head.

*' I did n't aim ye shud ever knaw on 't, Polly
Ann," said Whitsun, " I cud n't holp it, hit hed
ter be did."

" I '11 never fergive ye en this worF, Whitsun
Harp ! " said Polly Ann.

Lum put his hands on the tree near him and
got to his feet. He leaned on the tree and
steadied his choked and shaking voice enough
to say, '* Look a yere, Whitsun Harp, I '11 kill
ye fer this."

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 325

Harp did not glance toward him ; he took
one step forward as though he would speak to
Polly Ann, but at her gesture of repulsion he
turned silently and mounted his horse. On
horseback, he reined in his horse, and looking
at Polly Ann, said again, '•' I cud n't holp it,"
before he galloped away.

Savannah was shivering and crying.

" Hit you ary lick, Savannah ? '* said Lum.

" Naw, naw," sobbed she. " Oh, Lum, oh.
Mis' Shinault, 't wa'n't my fault ! I war jes
sick. Whitsun 's heerd lies on me 'n' Lum.
I 'm goin' ter be merried ter Steve Morrow
nex' week. Fer the Lord's sake, don' tell 'im ;
he wud n't never speak ter me agin ! I done
my best ! I pulled Whitsun's arm."

For all his misery, Lum burst into a bitter
laugh. " Muster hendered Whitsun a heap,
you hoklin' on," said he. '* You go 'long home,
Savannah, an' don' be skeered er we uns tell-
in' ; jes tek keer ye don' let on nuthin' yo'self —
never min' w'at happens ! "

Something in his face checked her answer ;
she was scared, and glad to ride away.

The husband and wife were left alone to-
gether.

Lum looked at Polly Ann, who was very pale,
" Ye come jes in time, Polly Ann," said he.

"I wud n't o' b'lieved ye'd a taken it, Lum

326 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

Shinault," said she bitterlj^ *' with yo' knife on
too. Pull yo' belt 'reoun ' ! "

Mechanically, Lum put his hand to his belt,
which had been twisted so that the knife was
in the back. "I done forgot 'beout the knife,"
muttered Lum, reddening ; " thet ar 's a favor-
yte trick er Harp's." Then, in a second, he
added : " I ain't goin' ter tek hit, Polly Ann."

She said nothing.

" Ye don' b'lieve me," cried Lum.

" 'T ain't no use talkin'," said she wearily.

" I '11 hev it out with 'im. Ye 'low I 'm a
ornery, triflin', pusillanimous " —

" Whar 's the use callin' yo'self names ? " in-
terrupted Polly Ann. '' I don' wanter yere no
more 'beout it. • Reckon Boas '11 waynt 'is w'is-
key, onyhow. Thar 't is un'er the gum-tree."
Lum looked at his wife with imploring eyes
and quivering mouth ; at that moment he was
longing to fling his arms about her and sob out
his shame on her breast. Poor Lum's grand-
father was a Frenchman.

Polly Ann did not look at him, but went on
arranging her bag of corn; all Lum could see
was the profile of her sun-bonnet — there is
nothing sympathetic about a sun-bonnet. " Bes'
git on ter the mill ef I waynt a pone er bread
ter-day," said Polly Ann. " Be bacli ter din-
ner, Lum."

WniTSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 327

She rode on a little way and stopped. " I 'm
goin' ter hev a plum good dinner fer ye, Lum,"
she called back.

" Thankee, Polly Ann," said Lum. He
watched her until the trees hid horse and rider.
"Polly Ann 'lows thar ain't no troubles men
persons cayn't cure with eatin' an' drinkin',"
said he ; " drinkin'," — he eyed the whiskey
bottle lying at the foot of the gam-tree, —
" naw, thar ain't ony comfort fer me en thet
ar. I 'm en a hole, an' thar 's jes one way outen
hit. No good talkin' ter Polly Ann, she 's sot.
'T wud on'y pester her. Oh, my Lord, ain't it
hard ! "

"I wisht I cud hev kissed her jes wunst," he
said, after a while, " on'y fer ter say good-by.
How soft her cheek wuz ! An' thar war a little
blue vein jes un'er the ear. Wa'al, hit won'
mek no differ ter her, but I wisht " —

He walked on slowly until he came to the
boat on the sand. He could see his own cabin.
He remembered the day that he brought Polly
Ann to it — his wedding-day. He crawled into
the boat, lay down in the stern, and cried Hke
a child.

PART n.

Polly Ann's good dinner waited in vain. '
Lum did not come. Yet she was sure that,

828 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

while at the well drawing water, she had seen
his figure through the window. She blew the
horn. She called at the top of her voice. Fi-
nally she went to the shed to see if the horse
was gone. Gone he was, and there was a piece
of brown wrapping-paper, such as they used at
the store, tacked on to a log and directed to
"Mistris Shinalt." She took it down, turned it
over, and saw a single sentence, written in
pencil, in cramped, careful letters : " Darling
Polly an i taken your Hoss fer a Errant i wunt
be bak your Lovin Husban. C. Shinalt."

" Law me ! " said Polly Ann, " he mought
hev come in, onyhow. An' the dinner 's plum
sp'iled."

She was wretched over the morning's work,
but she did not feel alarmed, having no belief in
Lura's courage ; and when she discovered that
the gun was gone, she merely thought that he
meant to shoot squirrels.

But Lum was seeking other game. His er-
rand was to kill Whitsun Harp. The smoulder-
ing jealousy and resentment of weeks had burst
into a flame that was shriveling his heart. He
had been beaten before his wife, his wife who
valued strength and bravery beyond everything.
And Whitsun, whom she praised because he
was so strong and brave, had beaten him.
How many times had she praised Whitsun to

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 329

his face. Like enough she had wanted the
regulator all along, and had only taken up with
Lura because Whitsun did n't speak — girls
did such things Lum knew from the songs.
Here was the secret of her being so quiet and
sad, and of that queer way she had with her
that made him feel farther away, in the same
room, than he did thinking of her, miles off, in
the bottom.

" I never cud much her like I cud t' other
gells," thought Lum; "I alius hed ter study
on 't afore I cud putt my arm 'reoun' her waist.
Reckon I sorter s'picioned, inside, thet it pes-
tered her. Pore Polly Ann ! "

It was like Lum to feel no anger, only com-
passion, for his wife.

*' Hit's bad fer her too — turrible bad," he
pondered ; " ef it 's me gits killed up she caynt
hev no mo' truck wi' him, an' ef it 's him she '11
natcbally hate the sight er me ! Wa'al, she
won' be pestered with it ; I '11 go off on the
cotton-boat afore sundown. All through this
wide worl' I '11 wander, my lone," said Lum,
his thoughts unaffectedly shaping themselves
in the words of his songs. They did not cause
him to waver in his purpose ; he knew Polly
Ann's notions of manly honor too well. Old
Man Gooden shot a man once.

"Paw hed ter shoot him," Polly Ann ex-
plained ; " he spatted paw en the face."

330 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

*' An' ef a feller spatted me, wud I hev ter
shoot him?" Lum had asked, amused by her
earnestness, for this was before he passed the
careless stage of his marriage.

" Wud n't ye waynt fer ter shoot 'im ? " said
Polly Ann, fixing her beautiful grave eyes on
his smiling face.

" Wa'al, I shudn't crave it," said Lum.

" But ye wud, Lum, ye wud shoot him ! "

"Mabbe — ef I cud n't run away," answered
Lum, and he had laughed at her face over that
speech.

He did not laugh now, riding with his bruised
throat and aching shoulders, and the gun slung
across his saddle-peak.

" Him or me," groaned Lum ; " hit 's him or
me — one ! Thar ain't no tother way ! "

He was riding through the bottom lands
above the mill. The entire bottom was like
an innocent jungle with its waving green un-
dergrowth of cane. Pigs were rooting under
the trees, and the heads of cattle rose above the
cane, turning peaceful eyes of satisfied appetite
upon Lum's reckless speed.

There was no reason for haste, really, outside
the relief which motion gives to a perturbed
soul, for Lum knew that Whitsun was buying
a horse of a farmer up on the bayou, and would
have to return by the same road. But he did

W BITS UN HARP, REGULATOR. 331

not slacken his pace until he came on a man
riding more leisurely. The man hailed him,
and he saw Boas.

" W'y, I wuz at yo' heouse," said Lum, " an'
Mis' Boas 'lowed ye wuz en bed."

" So I war," said Boas in a weak, high voice,
*' but — I got up — I got up ! "

" Toby shore, toby shore," said Lum sooth-
ingly.

He saw the man could barely keep in his sad-
dle for trembling, and that his features were
ghastly ; but Lum had the humblest Southern-
er's innate politeness ; it was not deemed good
manners in Clover Bend to take notice of any
thing singular in Boas's appearance or conduct ;
there was one unhappy explanation always
ready.

Lum, through his daze of anguish, felt a prick
of pity for this miserable being who had done
many a kindness to Lum's mother in his un-
haunted days. He stretched out his arm and
supported Boas by the elbow.

" Oh, I 'm peart enough," said Boas ; " I
waynter tell ye suthin', Lum."

The younger man resigned himself with in-
ward impatience to a slower gait.

"This yere 's a sightly kentry, Lum, ain't
it? " said Boas, gazing about him, " but I ain't
'repinin' ter leave it."

332 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

'* Be ye gwine ter Texas ? "

" Farder 'n Texas, boy. Dr. Vinson was over
an' he tole me — naw, Lum, ye don' need ter
say yo' sorry, I know ye ar. Ye be'n like a
son ter me sence ever ye wuz a little trick an'
played with my boys. Ye wuz the least little
trick er all. Ye 'member 'em, Lum, sich peart,
likely boys they wuz, an' they all died up an'
nary un ter home, peaceable like; Mat an' Tobe
drownded, an' Mark throwed from his hoss.
All on 'em ayf ter — ye know w'at — all three
en one year, ev'ry chile we 'd got, Ora an' me.
Hit war hard ter endure, Lum, turrible hard."

"It war so," said Lum.

" Wa'al, they 're all on 'em gone. An' I '11
be gone, too, afore long. I ain't repinin'. Lum,
ye never heerd me talk on 't ; I cud n't b'ar ter
speak ; but, somehow, 'pears like 't wud ease
my min' a bit ter tell ye suthin' er my feelin's,
Lum ; ef I hed n't er be'n so mortal skeered er
meetin' up with Grundy, I 'd a killed myse'f a
long spell back, I wud so. I 'm wore out. Boy,
ef so be yo' tempted ter fight, 'mind yo'se'f er
me ! I killed Grundy Wild, killed 'im fair too ;
but. Lord ferguv me, I done went enter thet ar
fight aimirC ter kill. I 'low thet war how he
got 'is holt on me. Fer he 's never lef me
sence. Fust I wud n't guv in. * Be thet ar all
the harntin' ye kin mek out ? ' sez I. But hit

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 333

kep' a comin' an' a comin', never no differ, tell
hit crazied me, Lum !

" Niir thet war n't the wust on it. The wust
war bein' skeered the hull w'ile, 'spectin' an'
dreadin' never no tell.

" Did ye never hev a door a squeakin', Lum ?
A squeakin' door ar' a mighty little trick ;
't ain't nuthin', ye may say ; but ye '11 be a set-
tin' an' thet thar door '11 squeak an' stop, an'
then it '11 squeak agin, an' then not, an' then
squeak an' squeak an' squeak tell ye git up,
sw'arin' mad, an' shet the door. Lum., I cud nt
shet the door! I taken ter drinkin', but I
cud n't git so drunk thet I 'd not feel thet thar
cole han' er his'n a flap flabbin' on my face.
Hit 's wore me out. At las' I jes give up ; an',
my Lord ! 'peared like his soul fa'rly enjyed
trompin' on me, r'arin' an' chargin' like 't wuz
a wil' hog ! Oh, my Lord ! my Lord ! " The
man shook in his saddle with the horror of his
recollections. But he controlled himself enough
to go on, though the sentences came in pants.
" Then I 'merabered — thet thar tex' — an eye
fer an eye an' a tooth fer a tooth. Hit come
ter me — cud I on'y swap a life with the Lord
fer Grundy's — then it mought be he wud tek
Grundy offen me an' — let me die en peace. I
don' ax no mo'." He stopped, gasping and
coughing while Lum held him. Lum was

334 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

deeply touched ; he was not a whit moved from
his intention ; but he was touched, and he felt
a sombre sense of comradeship, thinking,
*' Mabbe I '11 know how ye feel, termorrer."
Boas continued : —

" An', Lum, w'ile I war study in' an' pray in',
'Lord, let thy pore sinful sarvint wipe the
blood-guiltiniss offen his soul an' not hev ter
die skeered I ' Lum, I heerd them Case boys
from the hills talkin' outside. They wuz come
ter borry my bateau. They wuz ayfter Whit-
sun Harp, bekase he 'd prommused the big un,
Ike, a lickin' fer beatin' Ole Man Bryce outen
'is cotton. They wuz 'lowin' ter pick a fight
wi' him an' kill him. I peeked outer a crack
an' seen 'em. Two hed guns, an' all three hed
knives. So I tole Ora ter tell 'em we 'lowed
ter use our own boat. But they got a bateau
farder down, an' I seen 'em en the river, so I
hed Ora row me over an' I borried Looney's
hoss, it bein' so easy — an' I 'm agwine ter
warn 'im. The river twists so, an' thar's a
right smart er groun' 'tween Young Canes whar
he ar' an' the water, I kin' git thar fust, easy —
Say, little tricks, w'at ye bellerin' fer ? " The
road had passed a little clearing, made in Ar-
kansas fashion by burning down the trees. The
cabin in the centre had no window, and the
door was open, showing three particularly dirty

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 335

children who were all crying together. The
oldest stuck a shaggy white head out to say,
" Hit 's fer maw ? "

" Whar 's yor maw done gone ? "

" She 's done gone 'ith Mr. Harp fer ter see
Aunt Milly Thorn, kase Uncle Tobe Thorn
done lick er hide off en er," said the child, evi-
dently repeating an older tongue's story. " I
sended three men ayfter er, but she ain't come
back, an' we uns is hungry. Oh dear, maw !
maw ! "

" Hush, hush, honey," said Boas, trembling,
" whar did the men come from ? "

" They come from a boat, an' they axed fer
Mr. Harp, an' they said they wud fotch maw
back in the boat. Will ye fotch maw ? "

" Ter Tobe Thorn's," screamed Boas, clutch-
ing Lum's arm ; " d 'ye onnerstan', Lum ?
Thet 's 'cross the big bayou, the heouse on the
bank ; they kin cut 'cross en the bateau an' the
road goes 'way off t' other side. I cayn't do
hit, Lum, the Lord don' mean ter parden me !
An' pore Whitsun " — shaking Lum's arm in
his uncontrollable ao^itation — " Lum, mabbe
its 'tended fer you ter save 'im ! . Yo' boss
never makes a blunder. Ye knaw the bottom,
an' ye kin ride through the brake fast — fast ! "

Lum turned a dull, deep red ; he felt him-
self suffocating with passion ; he saw his re-

336 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

venge lost and with it everything else. Yet
he could not wrench his last hope from this
hunted, desperate, d34ng creature. And Boas
had been kind to his mother.

" Lum, ye will do hit," pleaded Boas ; " I
knaw ye don' bear no good will ter Harp, but,
God A'mighty, he 's a human critter, ye won'
see 'im murdered, w'en ye kin save 'is life !
Ye cayn't be so hard-hearted ! Oh, Lum, do
it ter save me^ ter holp me outen the hell I
be'n en fer five year ! "

" Yes," said Lum, " I '11 go fer you., Boas."

His face was as white as Boas's, but Boas
could not see ; he pushed his helper by the
shoulder to hurry him, panting, " Go 'long,
then, fast, fer God's sake ! God bless ye, boy,
ye '11 save two men stiddyer one. How he rides,
an' I useter ride thet way " — The children
cried, and he went to them ; Lum was out of
sight in the high cane.

The young fellow rode furiously. Beneath
that pleasant green sea lay pronged roots and
logs and ugly holes. Thorn-trees stretched out
their spiked limbs, wild grape-vines flung their
beautiful treacherous lassos on the breeze, and
pawpaw saplings, stout enough to trip a horse,
were ambushed in the cane. Through them
all crashed the brave gray, leaping, dodging,
beating down the cane with his broad chest,

o

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 337

and never slackening his speed. It looked like
a frantic race through the wilderness, but,
with the woodman's instinct, the rider leaving
the perils below to the beast's sure eyes was
really guiding him on an invisible course.

At last Lum drew rein before another clear-
ing. He could see Thorn's cabin and women
in the "gallery," and riding along the shore,
nearer and more distinct, the figure of a man
on horseback, plainly Whitsun Harp.

Lum galloped up to him.

The regulator carried pistols in the holsters
of his old cavalry saddle ; the barrel of one
flashed out as Lum approached.

" Ye ain't no call ter be skeered er me ! '*
shouted Lum. " Not this time. Look out fer
the Case boys — thar, on the bateau ! They 're
a comin' ! " —

" Shucks ! " said Whitsun. He gave Lum a
long and keen glance which apparently satis-
fied him, for he addressed himself at once to
the more imperative danger. In fact, the Case
boys were landing. Ike, the tallest, he to
whom the " lickin' " had been promised, stood
up in the boat, as the keel grated on the sand,
and hailed Lum ; —

" Say, Lum Shinault, moosey outer yere, we
hain't no gredge agin you ! "

" Wat mought ye hev come fer, then ? " said
Lum sarcastically.

338 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

" Ter guv that thar regerlater a show

ter lick Ike, ef lie dai'st," called the second
brother.

" I darst," Whitsun replied with his usual
composure; "jes come on over! " The broth-
ers consulted ; then Lum was hailed again : —

" Lum Shinault, git outen the road ! "

"The road's free," said Lum. '^ Yo' mighty
brash orderin' folks outen the road ! "

" Dad burn ye, be ye on his side ? "

" Looks like," replied Lum indifferently ;
" onyhow, ef ye waynt a fight ye kin hev
hit ! "

" They all won* fight," said Whitsun.

Nor did they. The third Case boy (while
the others were bending to their oars) yelled :
" A man so mean 's you, Whit Harp, hed orter
be shot 'twixt the cross er the gallowses, an'
we '11 do hit yit ! " And the big Ike informed
Lum that he was " let off " on account of the
women in the cabin; but not one of them lifted
his gun. Safe out in the river, they threw
back a shower of threats and oaths, but noth-
ing more solid.

" They 're pusillanimous cusses," remarked
Harp. Then he drew nearer Lum, looking
actually embarrassed. " I cajm't mek you out
rightly, nohow, Columbus Shinault," said he.

" Naw," said Lum scornfully, " nor I cayn't

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 339

mek myself out. Look a yere, Whit Harp, I
come enter this yere bottom ter kill yoa."

Whitsun nodded gravely, making a little af-
firmative noise in his throat, exactly as he might
have done to a remark about the weather.

" An' I wud hev killed ye or be'n killed up
myself — one, ef I bed n't met up with Bud
Boas. 'T ain't no differ hoiv he stopped me ;
he done hit, he sent me on his errant ter ye —
ter warn ye ; an' w'at 's mo', so longer 's he
Kves, ye ain't nuthin' ter fear from me. But
w'en he done gone — look out ! " He would
have wheeled his horse, but Harp caught the
rein, saying, " Stop ! w'at sorter trick 's all
this ? W'at fer did ye stop fer Bud Boas ?
Did he — did he skeer ye with his ghost ? "

Lum laughed harshly, in sheer bitterness of
soul : " A dozen ghosts wud n't a stopped me.
I don' hole by ghosts nohow."

" Then w'y did ye go ? "

None of us are above wishing to be justified,
and there is a peculiar zest in overturning our
enemies' false notions of us. Lum never would
have proffered an explanation, but there may
have been a grim comfort in letting Whitsun
see his real self. He replied quietly, " I come
ter holp Boas."

" How 'd thet holp 'im ? "

" 'Kase he war purportin' ter warn ye his-

340 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

self. He 'lowed ef he cud jes save some un's
life — a sorter swap like fer the one he taken,
thet ar glios' w'at harnts 'ira monght quit."

" Did the ghost say so ? "

" I don' hole by ghosts, I tell ye. Naw, it 's
jes a idy. So 's the ghost a idy, ter mi/ min'.
But hit's plura fixed in 'is head jes strong's
scripter. An' I reckon 't wuU be like he 'lows
't will be — so. He 'lowed ef he cud save ye
from bein' killed up er hev me, then the ghost
'ud let up an' he cud die in peace."

" Toby shore. An' hit war thet away ? An'
thet thar 's w'y ye won' fight me — kase the
life won' be saved then an' the sperrit mought
cum back ? "

Lum shrugged his shoulders : " I guess."

Whitsun's stolid face worked as he cried :
" Blame my skin ef I kin mek ye out onyhow !
Ye ain't no sich feller like I wuz 'ceountin' ye
ter be ! " The blood rushed to Lum's fore-
head with a sudden sense of the uselessness of
this late recognition, a sudden fury of pain.
*' Ye hev foun' hit out too late, Whitsun Harp,"
he cried ; " ye shamed me afore Polly Ann, an'
ye shamed her too, lickin' her husband jes be-
kase ye wuz the bigges' an' stronges', an' ye
WHIZ too dumb ter see thet thar triflin' critter.
Savannah, war jes sick with a chill, an' I wus
guvin' on her w'iskey."

WHITS UN HARP, REGULATOR. 341

"An' was them lies 'beaut you an 'er?"

" Ax Aer," said Lum, overcome by irrita-
tion ; " I don' want no mo' truck 'ith ye, Whit
Harp, w'ile Boas is 'live. Let go ! "

" Jes er minute mo', Lum. I ain't agoin'
ter fight with ye ayfter this ev'nin'. An' ef I
done ye wrong I '11 ondo hit yit."

The hand on Lum's bridle dropped, and the
gray leaped forward ; Lum's farewell words
hurled behind : " Ye cayn't ondo hit ; all ye
kin do ar' ter fight me, an' ye shell ! "

" Ef I mistaken him," muttered Whitsun,
who hardly seemed to hear, so absorbed was
he in his own train of thought, " ef — how cud
hit a be'n — me bein' called ? "

Boas was waiting at the cabin. He thanked
and blessed Lum, but the poor fellow's heart
was too sore to be thus eased. He must go
back to Polly Ann, who despised him. It
never occurred to him to try to lift himself a
little in his wife's opinion by telling the story
of the afternoon ; he felt too sure that Polly-
Ann would not believe in any real intention
of his to fight Harp, and would think that he
welcomed any excuse. If only the Case boys
had fought, if somebody's blood, no matter
whose, had been spilled ! " Gells is alius a
cravin' fer folks ter be killin' each other,"
mused Lum. ^^ Polly Ann wud feel a heap

842 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

pearter ef I Led a fust-rate title ter a ghost er
my own. But now I never '11 Lev no show,
not the leas' bit on earth ! "

Polly Ann received him with great kindness,
saying nothing of the spoiled dinner or the
delayed supper and twice-made coffee. After
supper she herself brought him the violin.
But he put it aside, saying : " Tek hit 'way,
I don' feel like fiddlin' ! " He had scarcely
touched his supper. " Ye feelin' puny, Lum ? "
said Polly Ann timidly. He only shook his
head and went out, forgetting his hat. Her
kindness jarred on his sick soul ; this morning
he had yearned for it because this morning he
had a conviction that she would not despise
him long or grudge him, afterward, a last
caress. But now — "I 'm so low down en
her min' she cayn't holp pityin' me," thought
Lum. Degraded in his own eyes and in hers,
and uncertain how long before Savannah's
giddy tongue might be released from the fear
that tied it and make his humiliation the
latest joke for the store, Lum's whole nature
seemed to collapse. He shunned the Clover
Bend people ; he even shunned his wife, spend-
ing days in the woods shooting, or picking cot-
ton, and taking a lunch into the field. At
night, supper over, he would go out and be
gone until late. Many a night did Polly Ann

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 343

pretend to be sleeping when Lum stepped
softly across the floor. He never had been
drinking; and he did not cross the river, for
Polly Ann, always watching at the window,
could see that the boats were not moved. One
night she followed him. All that he did was
to wander restlessly among the hills. She saw
him make wild gestures ; once she heard a
groan. Then she crept back to bed and cried,
poor woman, whether for him or for herself,
who knows ?

She began to be frightened. She saw Harp
at a distance, and once he crossed the river and
paid a long call on Boas ; so that she did not
connect any possible remorse with her hus-
band's gloom. How could she imagine that he
was ceaselessly and poignantly regretting his
not being a murderer ?

The only place where Lum was anything
like his old self was in Boas's cabin. Boas was
dying, but very peacefully. The visions which
had tortured his life away were gone. He had
no more dread of them. Thanks to Lum, he
told his wife. He told her nothing else, but
that was enough to arouse her gratitude. She
would not pain him with questions, but she
thought no harm of questioning Polly Ann.
" D'ye 'low Lum done seen Grundy an' druv
him 'way ? " she asked in tones of awe. " Law

344 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

me, Mis' Shinaiilt, but he mus' hev grit ! "
Grit ? — poor Lum ! But Polly Ann, who was
superstitious, did have a vague and appalling
theory that in some way Boas might have trans-
ferred Grundy to Lum. Yet, were she right, it
was not natural for Lum to take such evident
comfort in Boas's society, going there every day,
and taking his violin, although he never lifted
the bow at home.

Boas had little to say ; what he had was about
the time when his lost boys were children. He
would lie for hours, quite patient, quite content,
watching his wife at her simple tasks or hear-
ing Lum play. He often smiled. It was a pa-
thetic sight to see how this man, who had not
known peace for so long, seemed actually to
revel in mere immunity from dread. " 'Pears
like I cud n't git enough er jes restin'," he would
say. He suffered very little physically. " It
is n't so much that his lungs are gone," the doc-
tor had said ; " all his organs seem used up.
It 's more a death from exhaustion than any-
thing else."

November passed. Early in December Boas
died. Lum saw him onlv a few hours before
the event. He had never alluded to the past
horror, but to-day he said : " Lum, I be'n bav-
in' a cur'is dream. 'Beared like I war haulin'
logs alonger Grundy Wild, like we useter. An'

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 345

we uns war hevin' sich a pleasan' time. Hit
war purty weather, an' we uns did n't 'pear ter
hev no bad feelin's 'twixt us, an' Grundy he
war a laffin' an' pokin' fun, an' me, I war laf-
fin', too, kase ye know them tricks er his'n an'
quar contraptions, an' nary un 'membered nuth-
in' er thet ar bad time. I war a laffin' w'en I
waked up. Lum, we uns war right good frien's
wunst, an' hits quar but I ar' a feelin' them ole
frien'ly feelin's now agin. Hit 's like the res'
war jes a bad dream. I ain't skeered no mo'
er meetin' up with Grundy, Lum."

Not long afterward he fell asleep, and he may
have wakened with Grundy, for he did not
waken in this world. There was a great gath-
ering at the funeral. To this day the widow
talks about it with doleful pride ; " 'T war the
vurry bigges' an' the gran'es' buryin' the Bend
ever seen. A hun'erd an' sixty-two, big an'
little, looked at the co'pse. I ceounted."

Whitsun Harp came to the funeral. It so
happened that when Lum first saw him they
were both standing at the grave. The open
grave was between them. Polly Ann saw
Lum's moody countenance brightened by a fierce
light. Harp did not seem to see Lum or any
one ; his composed and melancholy gaze went
past their heads over the forlorn little field
with its rail fence and high gray grass waving

346 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

above the unmarked mounds. The services
ended, the people slowly walked down the path
which their own footsteps had made through
the grass. Polly Ann kept close to Lum. He
edged himself up to Whitsun. They spoke
together in a low tone, but Polly Ann had the
ears of an Indian ; she caught two fragments
of Lum's sentences : '' Nuthin' now ter ben-
der," and '' Down en th' bottom, by the little
bayou."

There were people with the Shinaults as far
as the ferry, and afterward there were the
widow and two cousins to escort home. One of
the cousins, intent on having a comfortable gos-
sip about the dead man with some one not too
near him for free discussion, returned with Lum.
So she gave Polly Ann no chance to see her
husband alone, and was still rocking and talk-
ing in the black and gilt rocking-chair when he
came in and took down his gun. " I 'm goin'
fer a shoot, Polly Ann," said he. He had
crossed the threshold, but he came back and
kissed his wife on both cheeks, before the cousin.
The cousin giggled ; but Polly Ann remem-
bered that he had not kissed her before in three
Veeks. I fear that her visitor found her an un-
gracious hostess. The instant she was free, she
ran to the shore. Lum's boat was gone, but
Boas's little boat had been left near the ferry ;

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 347

in this she rowed over to Clover Bend. At
first she hesitated on the other shore, but pres-
ently she ran at the top of her speed. She had
heard a single shot. " Thar wud er be'n two^''
her white lips kept muttering ; " thar wuz on'y
one ! "

She ran past the mill, past the pasture, down
into the swamp. It was the same cypress
brake through which Lum had ridden with
Boas, three weeks before ; but it was another
scene to-day. One of the wood fires, so com-
mon in autumn, had shorn the ground of the
green cane and all the undergrowth that hides
the weirdugliness of the cypress roots. Now,
bared of every tender disguise of vine or moss,
the hideous things, in their grotesque and dis-
torted semblance of human form, seemed demon
dwarfs crouching over their fires ; while the cy-
press knees bore an uncanny resemblance to
the toes of incompletely buried giants. Out of
this huddle of monstrous shapes rose the cy-
press-trees, un marred by knot or branch until
high, high above a rider's head, some slim and
erect like stately young maidens, others of enor-
mous girth, brother giants to those that the
earth refuse to cover. Some were as smooth-
and glossy white as dead bones. The fire had
eaten out their life. Charred logs were tumbled
over the ground, and the cypress boughs were

348 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

ashes whence rose a cloud of smoke under hurry-
ing feet.

Polly Ann ran on farther and farther into
the ruined forest. She could see the shining of
water. A log had fallen across the road. No,
O God ! it was no log, it was a man, it was
Whitsun Harp lying on his face, shot dead from
behind.

Another woman might have screamed. Polly
Ann only knelt down beside the man who had
loved her all his youth, and very gently turned
his face to the sun.

He who so seldom smiled now wore a pleas-
ant, dreamy smile on his lips. The murderer
had taken such sure aim that death did not
even interrupt the murdered man's thought.

Then, at last, Polly Ann understood her hus-
band. This was what he was studying.

Without a moan or cry her body swayed for-
ward like a broken tree and fell beside Harp's.
But she did not lose consciousness ; she knew
the voice that called her name, and she stag-
gered to her feet. Lum was standing in the
road, his face ashen white and his gun shaking
in his hands. She ran to him with a great sob
and threw herself against his breast.

" Run ! run ! " she gasped,' " they '11 cotch
ye ! Tek the boat ; the river 's bes' ! "

" Fer w'y must I run ? " said Lum. Though

o

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 349

he was so agitated, so excited, lie seemed rather
like a man overcome by some unexpected sight
of horror than one who fears for himself,

'' You " — began Polly Ann ; she clutched the
barrel of his gun. It was cold to the touch.

" Ye hav' n't fired hit off ! " screamed she.

"Naw," said Lum, " I see ye weepin' over
Whitsun Harp ; ye 'low /killed him ? "

" Ye looked so — skeered ! "

" I war skeered — pow'ful skeered. Kase,
Polly Ann, I lef home 'ith my min' sot on kill-
in' thet thar dead man, but I did n't do hit.
Hark' ter me, afore him lyin' thet away ye don'
b'lieve I cud lie. Lemme tell ye the hull truth."
Then he told, with the conciseness of strong
emotion, how Boas had saved him in the first
place, and how, as long as Boas lived, he could
not renew his attempt. " But, ter-day," said
he, " I war free agin. I cud show ye I war a
man 's much ez Harp. I spoken ter him at the
buryin'." — He shuddered. — "I 'p'inted this
yere place. He tole me ter come ter the store
fust, an' then ef I wanted he 'd come yere. I
done wen' ter the store. And he war thar. Afore
'em all, he stepped up an' begged my pardin'.
* Mr. Shinault knows w'at fer,' he says, an'
then he thanked me fer ' savin' ' on his life —
he putt hit like thet — an' tole the hull story. *
' An' now,' sezee, ' I don't guess ye keer fer my

350 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

comp'ny down en the bottom.' Then he holes
out his han', an' I taken it, an' he said, ' Ye
won' keep no gredge agin me no mo', will ye,
you nor yo' wife ? ' an' I said ' Naw,' an' he
went away, an' I never seen him agin tell I seen
you settin' by him, an' him dead. Polly Ann,
ye do b'lieve me."

Polly Ann was sobbing, but she nodded.
" Abe Davis, he war with me, but he went on
the high road, an' I come down yere fer a shoot
so I 'd hev some squirrels to tote home. We
heerd the shoot, but folks is alius shootin' in
the bottom. We mought er cotched of 'em ef
we 'd come straight down : I don't guess they '11
ever cotch 'em now. Thar 's too many ter
suspicion. "

Lum judged rightly. Among the dozen men
who had cause to hate Whitsun, Justice (a
somewhat unwieldy personage in the bottom)
never could find enough evidence against any
one to take action. Whitsun's murderer was
never punished, to Clover Bend's knowing ; he
was never even pursued.

Lum knelt down as Polly Ann had done by
the dead man's side ; he looked up at his wife
with love and pity beyond his expression. " Yes,
he's ddne gone shore, dearie," he said slowly;
" I wisht he warn't. He war a better man nor

me."

WHITSUN HARP, REGULATOR. 351

Polly Ann only sobbed.

" Wild ye — wud ye like ter — ter say good-
by ter him afore I holler on Tobe ? I'll step
over yander ter look fer 'im."

Then Polly Ann looked up. She read his
thoughts.

" Lum," said she, " come yere ! " He came.

" Ye 'low thet I set store by Whitsun, too
gre't store, mor'n I done by you f "

*' He war yo' kin', honey, I don' meanter-ter
trow it up agin ye — ye 'lowed I war triflin'."

" Lum, Lum, don' say the word," cried she,
" donH ! I don' know how ter tell ye ; but
't waz you alius, alius, even w'en ye hed n't nary
thought fer me an' wuz waitin' on Savannah
Lady. I fit agin hit, I done my bes' ter brung
my min' ter Whitsun, fer he — he axed me an'
he war so good, so brave, the bes' an' faith-
fulles' — but I cud n't do it, kase my min' war so
sot on you. An' then we uns wuz married, an'
ye did n't set no gre't store by me fer a right
smart. An' I wuz so lonesome, an' paw war
gone, an' I grieved. An' then w'en ye sorter —
sorter began ter hev a — a differ en yo' feelin's
I war frettin' an' takin' on bekase ye war n't
like Whitsun, an' kase ye wud let 'im dare ye
an' prommus ye lickin's an' not tek it up. Oh,
Lum, I war a fool, but 't war alius you. Whitsun
knows it war alius you."

352 KNITTERS IN THE SUN.

» >j

" Yes, honey, yes, my darlin', I onnerstan',
said Lum softly, gathering her into his arms
with a full heart. In that supreme moment
they both forgot all the world but themselves.

But Whitsun, lying in the sunlight at their
feet, was smiling still.

o

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Italian Popular Tales. Translated from the Italian.
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A Step Aside. i6mo 1.25

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Country By- Ways. i8mo 1.25

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Men, Women, and Ghosts. i6mo 1.50

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Guy Mannering. Rob Roy.

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Black Dwarf, and Legend Redgauntlet.

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Bride of Lammermoor. The Talisman, and Other

Ivanhoe. Tales.

The Monastery. Woodstock.

The Abbot. The Fair Maid of Perth.

Kenilworth. Anne of Geierstein.

The Pirate. Count Robert of Paris.

The Fortunes of Nigel. The Surgeon's Daughter,

Peveril of the Peak. and Castle Dangerous.
Quentin Durward.

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Was Shakespeare Shapleigh ? A Correspondence in
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Poverty Grass. i6mo 1.25

RARE BOOK
COLLECTION

THE LIBRARY OF THE

UNIVERSITY OF

NORTH CAROLINA

AT

CHAPEL HILL

Wilmer
475

^m